


the facts were these (from a to z)

by timstokerlovebot (SchmokSchmok)



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Pushing Daisies Fusion, Christmas, Comfort No Hurt, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Holidate AU, M/M, No beta we kayak like Tim, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Polyamory, but with a twist, fast burn, i really need you to suspend your belief for this one, like: they meet they're in denial they're in love they kiss-kiss-kiss
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-01
Updated: 2020-12-18
Packaged: 2021-03-10 00:47:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 19,373
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27785470
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SchmokSchmok/pseuds/timstokerlovebot
Summary: Jon Sims and Tim Stoker will be friends with Martin K. Blackwood for two months, one week, two days and eleven hours. This fanfiction is the comprehensive account of their friendship. From A to Z.A Jonmartim Advent Calendar.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist/Tim Stoker
Comments: 22
Kudos: 50





	1. A is for Accepting a Dare

**Author's Note:**

> So, this happened because I rewatched A to Z, Pushing Daisies and at least ten different Christmas movies in a too short amount of time.  
> I'm writing this as December progresses, so the possibility I won't keep up posting every day is ... high. But y'know, this is for me to unwind, so: Hope you enjoy.
> 
> PS: This is really self-indulgent, there will be no slow-burn, everything will be really soft and fluff, the chapters will definitely be all over the place length-wise and I do not have a beta.
> 
> **CN: Alcohol, Child Neglect (referenced), Death (mentioned), Depression, Food, Martin-typical Loneliness**   
> 
> 
> I'll update the content notes as the story progresses, individual content notes in the header and a more detailed description in the foot notes. 

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Melanie dares Jon to get a date for Christmas.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Just remember in the winter  
>  Far beneath the bitter snows  
> Lies the seed that with the sun's love  
> In the spring becomes the rose_  
> [[#_3504](https://daswaisenhaus.livejournal.com/566.html?thread=389430#t389430)]

“You need a date, Jon,” Georgie repeats, exasperation clear in her voice. It's probably the fifth time she has said it. (Sixth, actually, Jon has counted every single reiteration.) “I don't care if it's platonic or romantic or if you bring a complete stranger. But you can’t come on your own.” She crosses her arms in front of her chest, gaze unwavering.

Jon, however, is not going to back down. Not this time. (Not like all the other times before.) She can't force him, can she? What is she going to do? Leave him out in the cold on Christmas Eve? That would be downright cruel, wouldn't it?

“G, let him be,” Melanie suddenly intercepts, before Jon has the chance to reply. “Even if he wanted to, he couldn't get a date if he begged. Who would he bring? The Admiral?”

So far, Melanie had been quietly ignoring Georgie's stubborn insistence and Jon's vehement refusal, their whole heated argument. Jon wishes she would have kept that to herself, too.

“I could get a date,” Jon insists, all spikes and spite and spicules, “easily. I just don't want to.” He shifts his weight, throws a daring glance towards Melanie. She's far too comfortable in her sweatpants and What the Ghost?!-shirt that obviously belongs to Georgie. (Jon knows for a fact that Melanie owns the very same shirt in her own size. When Jon is around, however, Melanie seems to be unable to find a single shirt belonging to her. Curious that is.)

“Oh, we all know you don't want to,” Georgie shoots back, “you keep saying so.” Her fingertips tap on her upper arm in an open display of impatience.

“And yet you can't let it go” Jon retorts triumphantly, but it feels like a hollow victory, shallow taste on his tongue. (There's nothing to be proud of. Except maybe for the fact that Jon almost let slip that, actually, she can do it like Elsa. But Melanie doesn't need to know that he knows what a meme is. Melanie doesn't need to know anything ever, really.)

Melanie, still more absorbed into her Pokémon game than the actual conversation, says: “It's not embarrassing to admit that even if you wanted, you wouldn't find a single person interested to spend the evening with you, which is why every time you're invited somewhere, you bring my girlfriend. And I'm tired of it.”

Puffing up his chest in indignation, Jon opens his mouth to tell Melanie where she can shove this kind of accusations, when Georgie intervenes: “You know I don't have anything against going with you to events and such.“ She breathes in deeply, and out, before she continues. “But Melanie is my plus one, so I can't. And we need an even number of guests. So, if you can't bring anyone, you can't come.”

“I'll bring someone,” Jon says, finally. Even though he himself doesn't believe it either. “I'm going to bring a date.”

This is the first time, Melanie looks up from her GameBoy Colour, smirking, and says: “I'd pay to see that.”

“How much?” Jon crosses his arms in front of his chest. Up until now he thought he could maybe agree to Georgie's, frankly, inhumane conditions and back out shortly before Christmas itself, so that Georgie would have already planned the festivity with him and would lift the ban on singles because she would have felt bad for making Jon go through the horrifying ordeal of searching for a date. Now? Jon's pretty sure Melanie directly attacked Jon's honour.

The Sinho region theme is way too loud for any real silence, but Jon is still able to hear the rustling of fabric as Melanie shifts on the couch. The smirk on her lips dims a little when she asks: “What?”

“How much would you pay to see me coming with a date?” Jon repeats unwaveringly.

Melanie purses her lips, forehead furrowed in thought. Then she throws a glance in Georgie's direction, before answering: “I could really use twenty-five pounds, so prepare to pay up.”

“Does Melanie even have twenty-five pounds?” The question's directed at Georgie who's obviously pondering putting an end to this line of discussion. Jon's not sure if it's his apparent bristled expression or her wanting to continue their game of Scrabble, but she nods in a theatrical display of defeat.

Melanie lazily throws a cushion in Jon's direction, but misses by far. For a moment she looks like she's contemplating throwing a second one, but then she seems to decide that she's got more important things to do than bully Jon.

“You're on, King,” he says and realises a little too late using her last name wasn't as big an insult as he thought.

“Glad I can make sure your Christmas present for me is actually useful for once,” Melanie answers, and he can hear her smirking more than he can actually see it.

Before he's able to say anything back, however, Georgie lays _irony_ and Jon's attention snaps back to their game.


	2. B is for Bathroom Life Evaluations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Tim explains Sasha and he got a holidate thing going on and proposes Jon do the same.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> after my first two contributions to this fandom, i was really worried i'd go down as the one who always writes about sweat, and that i should change that. and here we are, with a chapter starting with jon needing to pee.  
> cn: alcohol | i'm just here, heavily projecting my drunk routine on jon.
> 
> _i found you laying on the floor staring at the ceiling_  
>  and you kept muttering "why" in various inflections.  
> [[#_3531](https://daswaisenhaus.livejournal.com/566.html?thread=389942#t389942)]
> 
> **CN: Alcohol, Death (mentioned)**  
> 

Jon can count on one hand the number of times Tim Stoker has seen him in unfavourable condition.

The first time was when Jon’s grandmother died and Jon tried to work through the numbness, but instead found himself in the Archive’s bathroom underneath the hand drier, crying. The second time was when Georgie wanted to move in with Melanie and kindly informed Jon to either live alone or get a new roommate – and Jon couldn’t hold back when Tim asked what was wrong. The third time is now.

It's the sixteenth of September and Jon is a tiny bit tipsy after his Scrabble night with Georgie (and by proxy) Melanie, he's still kind of riding the high of a glorious victory, when he stumbles over the threshold of the bathroom because he needs to pee _now_ , _urgently_. Unfastening his belt and the button of his trousers while shutting the door with his heel, he thinks it's probably good that Tim tends to stay late at Sasha's on Saturday nights because, as he realises now, he legitimately forgot to lock the door before sitting down. (It's not that he thinks Tim would have a problem walking in on Jon. But Jon would probably evaporate on the spot.)

Intently, Jon stares at his socks, wiggling his toes which seem oddly drowned in them. Actually, now that he thinks of it: He can’t remember ever buying cerulean socks with pineapples on them. Which means that Jon must have grabbed one of Tim’s pair without realising it. – He should have, shouldn’t he? The fabric bunches up around his ankles, his toes have more room than he’s used to. This is nice, like living with Tim in general. Jon didn’t think he would get used to Tim, but it’s been a year and he doesn’t know how he ever lived without him and his late-night rummaging around.

_Tim_ , Jon thinks, wouldn’t want him to get a _date_ (platonic or otherwise) for Christmas. What’s with group activities needing an even number of attendants, anyway, huh? Why would anyone plan anything for a specific number of people? This doesn’t make any sense at all.

Jon reaches for the toilet paper, for a moment oddly fascinated by the way the bathroom light catches on the black ring on his right middle finger. Then he shakes his head vigorously, in an attempt to get his thoughts back on track.

In all honesty, the thing that bothers him the most is that neither Melanie nor Georgie seem to think that he’s got any friends besides them. Even though they both know he lives with Tim and is at least acquainted with Danny, Sasha, Michael and Gerry. He wouldn’t call them friends on his own accord, he thinks while pulling his pants back up and flushing, but he wouldn’t call them strangers either.

The thing is, he thinks and turns on the faucet to wash his hands, that he doesn’t know if he wants to spend an entire evening with one of them without the others. He can’t remember a single time he ever had to talk to them without Tim by his side. Truth be told, he’s not even sure he could if he wanted to. (So, okay, sue him, maybe Melanie and Georgie have a point. It’s not, however, that he couldn’t get someone to spend time with him – he just doesn’t want to.)

After drying his hands, his gaze falls upon his socks ( _Tim’s socks_ ) once again, and he thinks he needs to get them off. They don’t belong to him, they’re Tim’s, and it’s rude and trespassing to wear them without asking first. So, he plops down onto the floor and he tugs on both socks simultaneously, although they feel nice and look nice and remind him of Tim which is also kind of nice.

In the end, he frees one of his feet from its containment, but the momentum of the pull throws him onto his back. And now he’s staring at the ceiling, sock clenched in his hand and task forgotten.

Christmas had always been Georgie’s and his ‘thing.’ Prior to their romantic relationship, Jon hadn’t been interested in Christmas because of various reasons. The most important one being that his family was a non-christian household. Georgie, however, loved celebrating Christmas in a rather secular and family-oriented kind of way. So naturally, Jon had to be included, too. (It was bothersome at first, Jon’s not too proud to admit, but even now, sometimes when he felt particularly self-deprecating, he mourned a little for their quiet traditions and rituals. And up until now, Christmas had survived Georgie’s moving out, and Melanie King’s weird Christmas traditions. Jon kind of thought this would last forever.)

“What the fuck are you doing?”

Tim’s voice is loud and unexpected in their tiny bathroom. Somewhere between Jon washing his hands (by the way, did he use soap? do they even own soap?) and his nostalgia induced laments, Tim must have come home.

“I’m not sure,” Jon confesses, and his voice sounds rougher than he anticipated. His left hand comes up on its own accord and before he can think about it, he sniffs at his fingers. (Lemongrass, he definitively used soap, which means they _own_ soap. Nice.)

“Want company?” Tim asks, pointing to a point near Jon’s socked left foot. Jon shrugs and Tim sits down next to him, his back leaning against the tiled wall. “Is there a reason you’re wearing only one sock?”

In lieu of an answer, Jon expands his left arm and when Tim holds his hand out underneath Jon’s, Jon lets the sock fall down into Tim’s open palm. Then his arm falls down again.

Tim furrows his brows and blinks a few times, before he just says: “Thanks, Jon.”

“They’re yours,” Jon states. “I didn’t realise they were yours when I was at Georgie’s. But, uh, then I realised.” He tries to clear his throat, but it sounds more like a really weak cough. “Must have taken them by mistake.”

“And what exactly distracted you from the second sock?” There’s a laugh in Tim’s voice that Jon can almost see when his hands grip the tiled wall to his left and the porcelain rim of the sink to his right and pull him upward. The moment he sits upright, the dizziness hits him full force.

The swaying of his shoulders is only tamed by Tim’s hand gripping onto him and steading him, but he shrugs it off nevertheless because he has to pull off Tim’s sock and Tim’s hand is in the way, restricting him in the most inconvenient way possible.

Carefully, he reaches forward and pulls his shin towards his hip, while he simply declares: “Georgie.”

His index-finger slips underneath the elastic band of the sock and maybe Tim’s tone of voice should concern him when he asks: “I thought you were over Georgie?” But Jon needs to take off this sock, and it’s way more important than dissecting the nuance of a question this unnecessary.

“Of course, I’m over Georgie,” Jon chides. “In a romantic way, at least. We’re still friends.” He interrupts himself, finally freeing his second foot and offering the sock to Tim. “You know, we’re still friends, don’t you?”

Tim reaches out and gently takes the sock out of Jon's hand, then he sighs: “Yeah, Jon, I know.”

“Good,” Jon nods, more to himself than to Tim. “Usually, we spend the holidays together. This year, however, she decided that I ‘need a date, Jon, I don't care if it's platonic or romantic or if you bring a complete stranger. But you can’t come on your own.’”

Jon knows that his impression of Georgie is terrible at best, but Tim seems to think that it’s either pretty spot on or horrifically bad. He laughs either way.

“Maybe you should do it,” Tim suggests when Jon doesn’t say anything else, making him bristle in offence. Defensively, Tim puts his hands up. “I’m just saying: I’d offer to go with you, but Sasha and I got this thing going where she accompanies me to every family outing and vice versa. And her family celebrates Christmas, so I’m already booked.”

Confusion settling between his brows, Jon tilts his head, turning and twisting the cuff of his trousers with the tips of his fingers. (Even though he wants to concentrate solely on Tim, he can’t ignore the way the cold bathroom light stings in his eyes and the floor tiles feel cold beneath the soles of his naked feet and the skin of his left thumb catches onto a loose thread on the inside of his cuff. Everything’s the same volume.)

“Isn’t Sasha your girlfriend?” Jon questions when his head hits his own shoulder.

“Why would you thi–,“ this time it's Tim who interrupts himself. “Never mind. No, Sasha’s not my girlfriend.” Gently and slowly as if he didn’t want to scare Jon off, Tim reaches out and tilts Jon’s head back with the tips of his fingers. “It’s a holidate kinda situation. We’re platonically dating on holidays and holidays only. She doesn’t get bothered about her being aro, and I’ve got backup for dealing with Danny.” Tim smiles, and the only thing Jon can look at now is Tim’s cupid bow. (It takes a surprising amount of strength not to reach out and touch it. Jon is a superhuman, just saying.)

“Think about it,” Tim continues because, apparently, Jon hasn’t said anything at all. “We’re going to talk about this tomorrow.” A small pause, probably for Jon to fill. (Jon’s still staring at Tim’s cupid bow and finally the actual thing that mesmerised him clicks: There are soft, barely visible traces of hastily wiped off lipstick on Tim’s lips.)

“Did you brush your teeth?” Tim’s voice snaps Jon back into the moment and he shakes his head vigorously. “Then let’s get onto that first.”

Still with a cautiousness more fitting for a scaredy cat, Tim hoists himself up on his feet again and extends his hand for Jon to hold onto. (It’s nice, almost as nice as Tim getting their toothbrushes and spreading toothpaste onto the bristles before Jon can protest; and almost as nice as Tim shoving a tall glass of water into Jon’s hand and telling him to drink up before going to bed.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- Jon is tipsy after spending the evening with Georgie and Melanie (no alcohol gets consumed in this chapter)  
> \- There's a brief mention of the death of Jon's grandmother in the second paragraph
> 
> * * *
> 
> funfact: i don't photosynthesise, i feedbacksynthesise and appreciate every kudo/comment/bookmark/subscription, they fuel me ♡


	3. C is for Come to Know

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Jon and Tim meet Martin “K.” Blackwood | The Piemaker for the first time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Blumen, die wir selten sehen,  
>  haben es uns angetan.  
>  Wir bewundern Orchideen  
>  und verachten Löwenzahn._  
>  [[#_3266](https://daswaisenhaus.livejournal.com/566.html?thread=378678#t378678)]
> 
> (flowers that we seldomly see / we're fond of. / we admire orchids / and despise dandelions)
> 
> **CN: Alcohol (mentioned), Food (mentioned)**

It’s almost ten o’clock when Jon finally wakes up. His room is still dark and the only reason he knows it’s way too late is the digital clock on his nightstand. The only reason he wakes up is the soft aroma of coffee wafting into his room through the open door. – Even though he can remember stumbling into bed and closing his eyes, he can’t pull up a memory of drawing the curtains or closing the door, so it seems likely for him to assume that Tim did it to force him to sleep in for once. And he can’t find it in him to be miffed about it. Actually, he feels kind of alright after almost ten hours of sleep, and he’s pretty sure a shower and the coffee Tim’s currently making will do the rest.

Jon reaches for the lower drawer of his nightstand and pulls it open before he remembers that all his socks are currently located on the clotheshorse in the living room. (Which is why he wore Tim’s yesterday. And no, he won’t think about their weird sock exchange in the bathroom tonight. He won’t dampen his mood now. Not if he can actively avoid doing it.)

Barefooted but clad in pyjama pants and an old shirt, he makes his way past the open kitchen door and the living room, straight to the bathroom to take a short shower and dress himself with new clothes. (A year ago, he wouldn’t have walked down the hall dressed like this. Hell, three months ago he still wouldn’t have. He’s not sure what exactly changed.) The door hardly closes behind him when Tim calls out: “We’ve got plans, Jon, hurry up.”

“Plans?” Jon calls back while reaching out for his hairbrush. (Usually, it doesn’t matter how drunk or sick he is, he always braids his hair before going to bed. Otherwise he would wake up in the middle of the night, laying on his hair and pulling at his scalp. On top of that, there is nothing worse than brushing his hair after leaving it loose overnight. – Tonight though, Tim distracted him with all his talking about hydrating and calling his name if anything would happen. Jon simply forgot.)

“Yeah, I told you,” Tim replies, “late breakfast at _The Piehole_.”

Jon furrows his brows, wincing while untangling the knots in his hair. Then he stops dead in his tracks, thinking that this doesn’t even make sense; why would he brush his hair before showering, what a waste of time and energy. (Maybe, Jon concludes, maybe he’s not as rested and awake as he thought.)

“What’s _The Piehole_?” Jon’s words are a bit muffled through the fabric of his shirt, but Tim seems to have understood him just fine.

Tim responds: “Jon, I told you: It’s a hole, they serve pie. I haven’t been there myself, Sasha told me about it. You’ll love it, trust me.”

Jon doubts that, actually, but the thought of pie is not off-putting. To the contrary, to be honest, Jon deserves a slice of apple pie. And a second coffee.

“Now, hurry up,” Tim calls out, when Jon doesn’t reply because he’s testing the water temperature with his fingertips, after getting rid of his pyjama pants.

“I am,” Jon yells over the running water, then he steps underneath the stream and lets the warm water run over his shoulders and his back. Just for a moment, hoping against all hope that the water will do anything for his uptight muscles.

In the end, it takes fifteen minutes for Jon to shower and brush his hair and tie it up into a neat bun, tightly secured with multiple bobby pins. It takes two more minutes for him to tie his shoes and pull on a jacket, then Tim's already shoving Jon out of the flat, down the stairs and out of the building. When the cold September air hits Jon's cheeks, Tim shoves a reusable mug into Jon's hand. The thanks Jon mutters is probably lost to the wind.

“What is so special about this place, anyway?” Jon asks when they exit the Chelsea tube station, forced to move forwards by a surprisingly large crowd streaming onto the street. The tube ride itself had been quiet between them, and Jon’s as thankful for that as he can be. It’s very nice of Tim to kind of ignore what happened this night and move on to take Jon out for breakfast. (Even if he’s sure that Tim already ate a little something after getting up.

“You’ll see,” Tim replies mischievously.

And Jon _does_ see what’s so special about this place, when they round the corner of a block and his gaze falls upon the roof of the next corner house which is–

“A pie crust,” Jon states. “This is ridiculous.”

“I think it’s charming,” Tim retorts. “Whimsical even.”

It’s a rounded corner, dark-green painted walls, round windows circled with yellow paint and a red neon-sign on the crust-roof. Two benches stand on both sides of the arched door, a vintage-y bicycle chained to a streetlamp in front of the building; flowers are inside the basket hanging between the handlebars.

“Well, there’s still hope for the pie,” Jon deflects, because _The Piehole_ looks cheesy, fairytale-esk in the middle of this modern Londoner street, like the drawing of a child come to life. (Secretly, Jon thinks it’s got its own charm. Just not one Jon would look for if it weren’t for Tim.)

Tim reaches for the handle and opens the door, then he says: “Sasha couldn’t stop gushing. But it’s not the whole reason we’re here.”

Mildly confused but not in the mood to question Tim further, Jon walks past Tim and right into a warm and welcoming room with green and white floor tiling and cherry-shaped lampions hanging low above the counter. It’s a comforting colour scheme, and Jon kind of loves the dark, wooden wall panelling and the round hatch behind the counter.

Tim’s right behind him and they choose to sit at a table to the left. Before Jon’s able to get rid of his jacket, a member of staff in a white apron and the naming tag ‘Martin (he/him)’ approaches them and sets down two menus on the tabletop between them.

“Welcome to _The Piehole_.” His voice is a calming kind of soft, Jon doesn’t have to strain his ear to understand him, but at the same time he doesn’t feel overwhelmed by the cheerfulness other waiting staff often displays. “Today’s special is pumpkin pie straight from the oven.” He interrupts himself, furrowing his brow. “Uh, all our pies are fresh, though, so, it’s not like every pie except pumpkin is leftover from yesterday.” He smiles awkwardly and his hand reaches up to scratch nervously at his neck. “I’m Martin, and I, uh, I usually keep to the kitchen, if you can’t tell.”

Jon’s not going to lie, he is a little put off by Martin’s stammering and the scratching. At the same time, he feels a tiny pang of sympathy. (He tried to work as a barista in his first year of university, just to make ends meet, really, Jon, however, is terrible at it. The indecisiveness and the arrogance of some costumers made his blood boil so often, he quit after a few weeks for the position as a research assistant in the library of his faculty.)

“I’m Tim,” Tim says, smile as radiant as ever, “and this is Jon. A mate of ours told us about your place, and we wanted to drop by ever since.” This is at least half a lie, because Jon’s sure he has never heard of this place prior to this night. “She explicitly told us to ask for your employee of the month.” Jon has never heard of this before.

Martin seems to know exactly who Tim’s referring to, because he points over his shoulder towards the entrance of the kitchen. And there, right in front of the threshold, lies a golden retriever with a red collar, sleeping.

“No,” Tim intervenes, “I meant the other one.”

“Oh,” Martin says, then he takes a look throughout the whole restaurant, before he points to a blanket lying on the sill of a window on the other side of the restaurant. Perched on the black blanket, and almost invisible with her black fur, is a cat, profoundly washing herself. “Most people want to see Orion, not Orbit.” He smiles apologetically. “Orbit’s also a nasty piece of work at the moment, so she lost her status as employee of–”

“Can we change tables?” Jon interrupts. A kick to his shin snaps him back, and he clears his throat before correcting himself: “I mean: Would it be possible for us to sit closer to Orbit?”

Martin shrugs, replying: “Well, yeah, no problem. But she’s not big on being touched, so, maybe,” his voice trails slightly off, “don’t do it?”

“No problem,” Jon says, holding his hands up in a display of innocuousness. “I won’t touch her. Wouldn’t have done it, anyway, I just would like to,” he interrupts himself, “be close to her, I guess.”

He cringes at his own words, but Martin seems to understand what he means. According to his smile at least. He says: “Go ahead.” And: “Would you like to order something?”

Thinking of the half-empty travel mug next to him, Jon retorts: “Coffee, and … you’ve got apple pie?”

“The best,” Martin answers slyly. Then he turns to Tim who says: “A milk coffee and I’d like to try today’s special.” Taking their menus with him, Martin turns and walks towards the counter.

When Jon faces Tim again, he’ a little surprised by the smug look on Tim’s face. (Not too much because Tim often looks smug, he doesn’t even need a reason to.) Jon deadpans: “What?”

“I told you, you’d love it,” Tim singsongs while gathering his coat. “And you didn’t even want to come. Shake my head.” He doesn’t shake his head.

“I didn’t _say_ I didn’t want to come,” Jon retorts snidely.

Already halfway to the other table, Tim says (too loudly in Jon’s modest opinion, they’re not alone, it’s an open kitchen, what if Martin _hears them_? Usually, he wouldn’t care, but Orbit is a beautiful cat, and he wants to come back): “Didn’t have to. I know you, bossman.”

“I hate when you call me that,” Jon says as if Tim wouldn’t already know. They’re both archival assistants as long as Gertrude’s still the head archivist. And even if she’d retire in the foreseeable future, it’s an open secret that she’d prefer Sasha as her successor. (You know, Sasha from Artefacts. Yeah, the one who doesn’t even work in the Archives.)

“Yeah, I know.” Tim sits down at the table closest to Orbit’s window. He picks the bench with the worse point of view, Jon appreciates it. (He also knows and appreciates that if he would earnestly hate Tim calling him anything, Tim would stop instantly. It’s friendly teasing, that’s what it is.)

Jon slides onto the other bench and turns towards Orbit. Currently, she’s occupied taking turns at licking her paw and stroking over her ear with it. She doesn’t take heed of them, and Jon feels pride swell inside his chest like a warm tide.

Silence stretches out between them, but it’s pleasant, comfortable even. Broken only by the footsteps of Martin coming back with two mugs, a pot of coffee and a jug filled with oat milk. He sets everything down on their table, never losing his smile, and turns away again to get their pies. And pies they are.

“Uh,” John says when Martin places an apple pie in front of him and a pumpkin pie in front of Tim, “this is a whole pie.”

“Oh, yeah, it is,” Martin replies, confusion clear in his voice. “Didn’t you want a pie?”

Jon stares at the pie plate, considering his next words. Then he says slowly: “Well, a slice. Not the whole thing. Who eats a whole pie by themselves?”

“You’d be surprised.” Martin shifts his weight and clasps his hands behind his back. “I can still change your order, though, if you want to.”

“No,” Tim intercepts, already two forks into his pie. “We’re good. If he doesn’t finish up, we’ll take the rest home.” For a second, Jon thinks about intervening, but he’s honestly happy enough that Tim didn’t jump at the chance to say something embarrassing like ‘you can join, too.’

Instead, he nods and reaches for his fork. The only thing he can now hope for is that this pie is as delicious as Martin made it out to be. (And if it is, then maybe there is more than one reason (Orbit) to come back to this place.)

“Incredible,” Tim says after his fourth fork. “If you don’t eat your pie, I will do it. Don’t test me.”

“Okay, okay.” Jon sighs, then shoves a small fork into his mouth. The pie tastes homey and Jon thinks, he’ll have to come back. It’s not too far to the institute, so if Tim and Sasha get too much to bear, he can surely walk over here and keep Orbit company. If he wanted, he could even take work with him. Martin wouldn’t disturb his concentration, and if he keeps coming back without bothering Orbit, she may even take a liking to him.

What he says, though, is: “Acceptable.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- Jon's tipsiness of the previous chapter gets referenced  
> \- Jon and Tim go to a restaurant serving pies only. They do eat pie at the end of the chapter, but it's not too graphic.
> 
> * * *
> 
> sorry for the delay, thursday is my most stressful day. n e hoo, i was this (my fingers are touching) close to naming the cat jane and make her in dire need of a deworming treatment. but i thought "no this is a health code violation" and then named the animals after the golden retriever actors who were cast for digby in pushing daisies c:
> 
> comments/kudos are welcomed and endorsed c:


	4. D is for Deceit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Tim bothers Jon to go back to talk to Martin, unbeknownst to him Jon is back already.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _es ist ein wintergeheimnis_  
>  [[#_3456](https://daswaisenhaus.livejournal.com/566.html?thread=388662#t388662)]  
> (it's a winter secret)
> 
> **CN: Food (mentioned)**

**Tim Stoker:** Jon, where are you )):  
  
**Tim Stoker:** We miss you (Fisted Hand Sign ≊ Oncoming Fist) (Pensive Face )  
  
**Tim Stoker:** You’ve been gone for so long  
  
**Tim Stoker:** jon  
  
**Tim Stoker:** jooon  
  
**Tim Stoker:** jooooooooon  
  
**Tim Stoker:** Stop ignoring meeee (Loudly Crying Face )  
  


The thing about working in an academic faculty is that Jon is blessed with silence for most of the day. He’s allowed to sit at his little desk, surrounded by books and papers and notes, and read the whole day if it’s necessary. He’s allowed to keep to himself which is rather nice because usually the things happening around him are of no interest to him. But ever since he started working with Tim in Research, Tim has made it his business to bother Jon at least once a day. Depending on the season, Tim’s mood and the situational circumstances (e.g. Jon’s mood) this ranges from a crudely drawn smiley-face on a post-it that suddenly appears on Jon’s desk when he gets back from storage to literally picking Jon up and carrying him out of the office to ‘get fresh air’ and ‘a modicum of physical exercise.’

On some days (many days, _most days_ ), Tim’s not alone in his endeavour of socialising Jon. Sasha likes to barge into the Archives as if they were her own, she sits on Tim’s desk until he finishes up what he’s doing, and she thinks Jon doesn’t notice that she throws paperclips and pens at Tim. (He notices, every time.)

More often than not, Jon can tolerate their bickering and whispering. Sometimes, he even joins in. (Not often, though. He takes his work seriously, and honestly, if it weren’t for them forcefully drawing attention to themselves, he wouldn’t even look up from his work.)

However, today he’s not in the mood for conversation, he doesn’t want Tim’s arm thrown over his shoulder, asking him about his night (bad), if he slept well (no), if he had any dreams (yes), o were they pleasant (no), if he wants to join them (no). So, before Sasha had the chance to enter the Archives, Jon had gathered three of the books next to his keyboard, a flash drive containing a copy of his notes and his laptop from underneath his desk, and left, calling hastily over his shoulder that he would be back in the afternoon.

He’s maybe been outside of the institute for about one and a half hours which hardly constitutes as ‘so long’, when his phone rings out for the eight time, heralding another text message from Tim. (Who else could it be, really.)

**Tim Stoker:** Jon uwu  
  


Jon stares at his screen, then he lays it upside down on the table and stares at his document instead. He knows Tim means well, and maybe he's not even exaggerating; the Archives can be incredibly oppressing if you're alone. (Gertrude's door remains shut most of the day, only her muffled voice coming through now and then.) At least that's what Tim said. On the contrary, Jon thinks it's liberating to work alone in a room only filled with shelves and file cabinets and the white noise of the AC. (Which doesn't mean that he doesn't want Tim in his working space. The tapping on his keyboard and the rustling of his paperwork is equally soothing. Sometimes, he just can't take the sociality Tim tries to incorporate into their daily life.)

Jon's phone chirps.

Jon sighs.

His phone chirps again.

**Tim Stoker:** wait  
  
**Tim Stoker:** Are you at the piehole (Smirking Face )  
  


Technically, Jon knows that he could just continue not answering. De facto, he already unlocked his phone and pulled up the chat. His thumbs hover above the screen, and he blanks. He could, of course, tell Tim to mind his own business; or that he wouldn’t disclose his current location because nosy, nosy Tim would just waltz right in. (He wouldn’t, Jon knows that. But he rather enjoys ruffling Tim’s feathers.)

While he’s still contemplating his next move, his phone chirps again. (The only reason his phone isn’t on silent is because Georgie had asked if he’d be alright with her calling him in the afternoon, and if he can’t hear it, he wouldn’t think about checking in at the right time. He starts to regret that decision.)

**Tim Stoker:** jimathans son, you sneaky little man  
  
**Tim Stoker:** You ARE at the piehole, aren’t you  
  
**jims son:** I am not at The Piehole, don't be ridiculous.  
  


His blue speech-bubble stares at him in mockery, almost accusingly. Even though he wants to, he can’t even tell himself that it’s only half a lie because the half-eaten piece of pie belies him. That and the fact that it’s not the first time, Jon has come back. He’s been at The Piehole often enough to be greeted by name not only by Martin (who already remembered Jon’s name after his first visit with Tim) but his waiting staff, too.

Jon’s phone chirps. Again.

Jon sighs. Again.

“Everything alright?”

Without Jon realising, Martin had approached his table, pot of coffee in hand. Graham’s at the registry, obviously preoccupied with his phone, so Jon’s not really sure why Martin would choose to come out of the kitchen to offer him a new cup of coffee. But it’s not Jon’s business how Martin manages his restaurant. 

Involuntarily, Jon lays his phone back onto the table, upside down again. Defensively he says: “Yes. Why?”

“Well, you seem a bit stressed,” Martin replies. Then he gestures towards the bench opposite Jon’s. “May I?”

Jon nods.

Jon nods and Martin sits down at his table. He places the pot on a spot not covered in paperwork and leans back. The silence that stretches between them is not as calming as it would be with Tim or Georgie. It’s more of a Melanie-silence. One in which Jon gets the incredible urge to blurt something out just to break it. The words that usually get through are seldomly nice or kind or inviting. – And he can’t afford to alienate Martin who is the only one who could come between Jon and Orbit. (Orbit who sniffed his hand today before she turned away and trotted towards a small cat bed in the corner. Orbit who once sat for over an hour at his table and chewed lazily on a toy mouse. Orbit who is slowly getting used to him and who he _adores_.) Jon would be accommodating to a hundred Martins if that meant he could see Orbit. (To be clear: He tried to do this with his own child, The Admiral, but Melanie made it blatantly clear that he couldn’t spend every free minute in their flat. Which, rude.)

Jon's phone chirps.

**Tim Stoker:** That you can look at this beautiful face and still lie is a mystery to me  
  
**Tim Stoker:** Jon, come on, don’t leave me hanging  
  
**jims son:** I am working, Tim. Keep it together.  
  


“Every time you get a text message, your eye twitches, did you know that?” Martin asks right the moment Jon hits send. Then a blush spreads over his cheeks and he corrects himself: “I mean, you probably do.” He clears his throat. “I just, uh, was wondering if I could do something for you?”

Multiple concerns come to Jon’s mind at the same time: First of all, the chirping of his phone caused by Tim. Secondly, the looming threat of a Christmas date he needs to organise in the next few weeks. And last but not least, the statement he’s currently researching which seems to be utterly unresearchable. But it’s not in Martin’s power to solve any of Jon’s problems. As nice as the thought is.

“I appreciate the offer,” Jon replies after a long moment, “but I don’t think there’s anything you could do.”

“What are you doing, anyways?” Martin gestures towards the entirety of Jon’s paperwork and his open laptop and the three books laying open amidst the mess.

Jon furrows his brows; without thinking, his finger starts running over the edge of the book closest to him. Between the pages, notes and small everyday items mark passages he has to look at again. The unorderly mess of papers strewn across surface of the table is a conglomerate of notes Jon took during an interview vis à vis, while reading books, and when he compared this statement to at least three dozens of other statements of the same year and/or subject area.

“Work,” Jon replies courtly, but realises as soon as he says it that most people would probably think of it as curtly. “I, ah, I’m working.”

“Oh.” Martin face falls like Troy, as if Jon were a horse filled with perilous surprises. “I didn’t want to disturb. I am so sorry, I presumed,” he stets about standing up and leaving Jon’s table, “most people don’t work here. They take a break from work, actually.”

“It’s alright,” Jon interrupts, and his phone chirps. “I don’t think I’m going to get anything done, anyway.” He sighs and closes the lid of his laptop, before tossing his phone into his bag underneath the table.

The smile Martin directs at him is almost worth feeling guilty about neglecting his work. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- In the first paragraph after Jon's reply to Tim is mentioned that he ate (no graphic depictions)
> 
> * * *
> 
> thank you for reading ♡


	5. E is for Extra

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Tim bothers Martin and updates Jon every few seconds.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (the clash voice) i fought the chapter and the chapter won (until today)
> 
>   
> cn: death (idiomatic) |  
>  _i love my friends to death_  
>  but i never call i never text  
> [ [longig for the impossible](https://schmokschmok.livejournal.com/42398.html?thread=151454#t151454) ]
> 
> **CN: Food (mentioned)**

**Tim Stoker:** You’ll never guess where I am right now  
  


Since Tim introduced _The Piehole_ to Jon, they dance around each other in the most obvious and infuriating way possible. Jon likes to seek refuge in the cosy restaurant and Martin’s soft offers of tea and pleasant conversation that Jon doesn’t have to accept. But Jon also likes to _not_ let Tim know that he could be considered a regular by now because Tim would never let him live this down. (See, Jon, I told you. And you thought the crust-roof was ridiculous.) Tim, on the other hand, likes to treat Sasha to pie or be treated by Sasha to pie, and brag to Jon about it. Tim also likes to point out that he knows that Jon frequents _The Piehole_ , just to make him deny it once again.

It's rather ridiculous that they keep this charade up, but sitting in _The Piehole_ has become somewhat of a pleasant escape from his routine that he's not ready to share this with Tim or any other person. (Even though Tim knows, and if Tim knows Sasha knows definitively too. But as long as Jon still has plausible deniability, he can at least pretend that no one knows where he is.)

**Tim Stoker:** Sasha and I am currently looking at one Martin k. blackwood  
  
**Tim Stoker:** What does the k stand for???  
  
**Tim Stoker:** Martin won't tell us  
  
**Tim Stoker:** It's a mystery!!!  
  


Jon's been trying to concentrate on his book for the whole afternoon but every time his phone chirps, his gaze drifts back to it and he forgets what he has been reading.

At first, after Tim's initial message, he tried to ignore his phone, even thought about turning it off or at least on silent, but he couldn't bring himself to do it. Instead he finds himself reaching for it every time a new text comes in.

He knows, most of the time when Tim's this excited, he kind of acts like he minds but that's not entirely true. That is not the whole story.

The thing is that Jon is very easily irritated and maybe even prone to be distracted by the smallest of things so much so that he tends to isolate and shut everything and everyone out if he needs to concentrate on the things he works on. And Tim's double-, triple-, decuple-texts tend to come in at precisely the most inconvenient times of day. Namely, when Jon attempts to meet the impossibly high quota of work he set out to take on that day.

Today, though, he doesn’t have anything to do. He’s leisurely laying on their couch, his nose deep inside a book that feels vaguely familiar but not enough to bore him, and he kind of longs for company without actually wanting to be in a social setting. So, Tim’s texts scratch an itch Jon’s not always able to feel before it’s way too late.

Most of the time it goes like this: Jon thinks he’s okay. He thinks he’s doing alright, working and coming home and working some more. Then something goes wrong, something little, something trivial, something he shouldn’t really care about but does in an irritably inappropriate big amount. And then, then he gets waspish, twitchy in an annoying kind of way that shortens his temper even further. (Most of the time, he’s the one that bothers him the most.

Taking a day off (usually brought about by Georgie’s or Tim’s insistent nagging) is the best way to ensure that Jon sobers down and regains something akin to ease. But it can get lonely on those days, too. Actually going out with Tim and Sasha or Georgie and Melanie, however, would make every attempt of unwinding null and void, so having Tim text him in irregular intervals about the things he’s doing is a constant reminder for Jon that just because he’s not with Tim, Tim hasn’t forgotten that he exists. (It’s the most low-key form of socialising Jon has ever experienced and he’s rather fond of it. Even more so because Tim doesn’t expect him to reply.)

**Tim Stoker:** We need your professional help, jon  
  
**Tim Stoker:** Or rather: I need your professional backup  
  
**Tim Stoker:** Sasha says Martin is an eight, but I think he’s a full on ten  
  
**Tim Stoker:** Care to take a stance  
  
**Tim Stoker:** My stance, the right answer is: My stance   
  


Five grey speech-bubbles containing the worst combination of words to text Jonathan “Jon” Sims stare at Jon. (Maybe _he_ is staring at _them_ , does it matter though?)

Tim knows about Jon’s asexuality. A year ago, they had this whole thing when Tim casually proposed moving in with Jon after Georgie had announced her moving out, where he told Jon about his pansexuality which was ‘an intrinsic part’ of Tim’s existence and if Jon would have a problem with that, he’d need someone else to move in and, actually, also to work with because Tim wouldn’t ‘accept any bullshit’. And where Jon had told Tim that, as long as he kept the PDA out of their communal space, Jon wouldn’t give a single fuck. Literally. (Which, unfortunately, led to Tim’s never-ending stream of ace-based puns and declarations of anything and everything as either bi/pan-solidarity or ace/allo-solidarity. Which was, on one hand, kind of nice because Jon didn’t often tell people about his orientation and therefore had only limited experience with unconditional support, but on the other hand tended to go overboard from time to time.)

So, rationally, Jon knows that Tim’s not asking for anything more than Jon’s level of aesthetic attraction to Martin. Emotionally, he feels a little alienated by the question because Tim’s rarely interested in Jon’s opinion regarding the looks of anyone, really. Up until now, Tim hasn’t even asked Jon if he was interested in dating at all. (Of course, Tim also knew about his past with Georgie. But ever since their breakup, Jon hadn’t shown even the slightest bit of interest in anyone, which would make most people curious – which _makes_ most people curious. Yet, Tim never prodded once.)

In regards to Martin’s aesthetic pleasingness, Jon comes up short. If he thinks about Martin, he doesn’t think about his freckles or his wide shoulders or his big hands and muscley arms. He thinks about soft-spoken apologies and Mind if I sit here? He thinks about quiet smiles and blushing cheeks. He thinks about easing into quiet company and growing accustomed to someone else existing right next to him. He thinks about the fact that, even though he had dreaded Martin sitting next to him the first time it happened, he now looks almost forward to it.

**Tim Stoker:** Did you know that Martin does not only own the piehole but also Orion and orbit  
  


Maybe Tim has a point. Maybe Martin is a whole ten out of ten. An all-inclusive of kindness and aesthetics and, most importantly, cats.

**Tim Stoker:** Update: Martin is allergic to both Orion and orbit  
  
**Tim Stoker:** I have never been this sad in my life  
  
**Tim Stoker:** My heart breaks for Martin Kakebaker blackwood  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- Martin's restaurant and the pies are mentioned a few times (nothing graphic though)
> 
> * * *
> 
> thank you for reading ♡


	6. F is for Flirting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Martin is really confused about Tim and Jon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _We'll start a fire that shines a light in the dark_  
>  [[015](https://daswaisenhaus.livejournal.com/566.html?thread=388662#t388662)]
> 
> **CN: Depression, Child Neglect (implied), Food (discussed)**  
> 

At this moment, Young Martin is twelve years, eight months, eleven days, four hours, and seven minutes old. Unsettled by loneliness-induced restlessness, he found himself in desperate need of comfort. And _comfort_ for Martin, meant pie.

It was five p.m. on a Saturday, and Martin’s mother was already back in bed. She had placed a plate with a peanut butter and jelly sandwich in the fridge for him, but Martin wasn’t ready to eat dinner yet. Instead, he found himself inside the kitchen, surrounded by flour and butter and eggs. This was the first time in Young Martin’s life that he tried to make a pie all on his lonesome. Up until now he had only seen his mother and grandmother bake, curiously studying them measuring without a scale or cup. The height of those sessions had always been for him when his grandmother allowed him to dab the crust with egg-yolk.

His mother, too, had always been happiest in the kitchen with him and his grandmother, baking apple or cherry or, occasionally, Shepard’s pie. She looked like a picture book mother, flour on her apron and a soft smile on her lips when the crust turned out crispy and lightly brown. On holidays, she wouldn’t cover the whole pie with a sheet of dough, but instead cut out seasonal decorations.

The smell of pie straight out of the oven had always made her smile. And it had been so long since she last put on her apron, since the last time she wasn’t tired and sad and I need to lie down, Martin dear.

He can do this, he thought. The risks were great, but Young Martin rationalised his rogue impulse baking as needed measure.

Carefully, he took the rolling pin, balancing on his tiptoes to oversee everything he was working on. Focusing intently on the dough, he found calm in the repetitive motion and the quiet noise of the oven heating up. He had already squashed three and a half berries after quietly discussing with himself if orange was a berry, too, only to admit defeat, accepting the fact that his mother would only get a three and a half berry pie instead of a four berry pie.

She’d be okay, he thought, the smell of the pie would be enough to make her smile, to maybe get her out of bed for a second time today. She’d be happy to get a slice of warm pie. (Probably also a bit mad that he’d used the oven without her present. But not too much, to touched by the gesture. He was sure of it.)

His crust looked a little wonky, uneven and too thick, but not too bad for a first try, Martin thought as he put the plate into the oven. Then he sat down onto the floor, clasped the hands in his lap and savoured the warmth at his back.

Sometimes, he thought about his dad and that his mother had baked often when he was still around, and that it trickled down afterwards, until it finally stopped for good. His pie would remind her of that time, maybe, would make her think about the afternoons spent in silent company of the other until his dad came back from work in the evening.

The air was sweet with pie after not too long, and the crust started turning crisply golden-brown. He made sure to cover his hands with oven gloves, before pulling the plate out and carrying it to the kitchen table. With great caution, he cut into it with a large kitchen knife and put two slices onto two plates. Then he waited, sitting at the table, flour in his hair and egg-yolk on his cheek.

Pie must mean comfort to Young Martin’s mother, too, because after a few minutes, her head poked around the corner through the open door, a dimmed smile on her lips. For a short second, she laid her hand on his head, then she sat down opposite him, making his heart swell with pride and affectionate happiness.

But Young Martin learned that even a forkful of immediate gratification can lead to a world of grave consequences, when he heard his mother cry in the night, probably thinking that Martin was already asleep.

  


* * *

  


A lesson to be learned again years later at _The Piehole_ when Jon Sims and Tim Stoker walked into his life.

The first time he had seen them, he had been overwhelmed with the realisation that he was alone in the restaurant and had to interact with them, and the sheer anxiety as the result of that thought. He put up a good fight, still thinks he did, only messing up a little when he tried to explain his rambling away. Jon had almost immediately shown his disinterest in Martin, and Martin had been fine with that, really, he had. This had not been the first time a beautiful person had shot Martin down before he even got the chance to make a move. (Not that Martin would ever make a move, especially while working.) But Tim had been nice, smiling at him and praising his pie maybe a bit more than necessary.

The second time, Jon had been alone, looking distressed and maybe even more tired than the first time. He had eaten half a slice of apple pie and drank two and a half cups of coffee in half as much time. Martin had remembered that Jon had been utterly smitten with Orbit, so Martin tried to coax the cat out of her bed to pay him a visit, but she just blinked at him, deliberately ignoring his request. Orion had walked over to Jon, but when he noticed that Jon wasn't interested in petting his head, he had gone back to his usual spot in front of the kitchen. And it was inevitable that Martin had decided that Jon was a lost soul in need of a safe space to hide.

Every time after that, Jon had been alone again. He sat down wherever was closest to Orbit and worked in silence on his laptop. He didn't strike up any conversation with the waiting staff but accepted Martin's company whenever Martin took a break and sat down at Jon's table. He didn't ask why Martin chose to sit down next to him, even though Martin had already planned several excuses if he ever did.

Tim, on the other hand, didn't come alone often. Mostly, he was accompanied by Sasha who, as Martin discovered, was the friend who recommended _The Piehole_ in the first place.

“I saw Orbit and I knew Jon would love it here,” she said when Martin asked. (Talking to his regulars instead of looking at his Google Reviews was more reliable, he told himself, but deep down he knew that he only asked his other customers for their reasoning to refer him to others was because he couldn't explain his interest in Jon and Tim otherwise.)

Tim was a force of nature in the best and worst way possible. He was loud and boisterous when the restaurant was empty, and soft-spoken when not. He made an effort to compliment every pie Martin brought him and always sent his greetings if one of the waiting staff did.

Sometimes, Tim would complement Martin as a person, never trespassing the fine line between respectfulness and inappropriateness. He would thank Martin for his thoughtfulness and attention, and would invite him to sit down with them but would always make it clear that Martin was in no way obligated to do so.

Most regulars are, of course, aware of Martin’s existence but they didn’t try to befriend him as much as Graham or Joshua who man the counter. They mostly ask about his choices regarding the restaurant’s appearance and where he gets his ingredients. They ask him about Orion and Orbit. But they don’t try nearly as much as Tim who always makes sure to tell him to have a good day when he leaves. Even if he has to yell it over the counter through the hatch in the wall.

Martin’s profoundly overwhelmed by both Jon and Tim as a whole. So much so that he even thinks about them when they’re not in sight. Especially on slow days at _The Piehole_. Because slow days don’t feel as strenuous with Jon’s quiet company or Tim’s chatter.

  


* * *

  


One day at the end of November when Martin’s staring longingly at the bell above the door, Graham asks: “Are you waiting for your boyfriend?” He leans against the counter, his back to the door even though Martin has told him a hundred times that he shouldn’t.

“I don’t have a boyfriend,” Martin replies in bewilderment, pointedly eyeing the glowing phone in Graham’s hand.

Graham shrugs, pocketing his phone with an overdramatic sigh. Then he turns around slowly, so that he can take a look at the door now and then without having to turn around. He questions: “But you’re dating, right?”

“I don’t know who you’re talking about,” Martin says hastily, even though he could probably make an educated guess as to who Graham thinks Martin could be dating. “I’m not dating anyone.”

“Could’ve sworn you were flirting with that Tim bloke.” Graham shrugs again as if he suddenly lost interest in this course of conversation. (This is not the name Martin anticipated because he has never once sat down with Tim, only ever polite small talk and the compliments, Tim sheds so freely.)

Martin although kind of screeches, and stammers: “F-Flirting? Why would you, I mean, I wasn’t … Why would you think that?”

Now, Graham is looking at him again, curiosity reawakened. He steps a little closer to Martin and says: “Every time, he’s here and talks to you, you blush furiously. It’s adorable, honestly.” Martin opens his mouth to retort but Graham’s not done. “It’s not like I’m eavesdropping. I don’t know what you’re talking about or anything.”

Martin shuts his mouth and throws a glance at Orion as if he could help him.

“He’s not–“ Martin sighs. “He’s nice. Friendly. He’s not– not flirting with me.” Orion tilts his head as if he were doubting Martin’s words. “Wouldn’t be appropriate if he were.”

“Maybe that’s why he’s only friendly,” Graham suggests, before he reaches for the phone in his pocket to read the message he received just now. “Oliver’s dropping by later, mind if I take my break a little late today?”

“No,” Martin says. “No problem.”

But Graham is already occupied with his phone again, not aware of or not interested in the turmoil he caused. He’s tapping away on his keyboard, a smile tugging on the corners of his mouth, and doesn’t turn around when the door opens, and four people stroll into the restaurant.

“Graham,” Martin chides softly. Then he seeks refuge in his kitchen, thankful that he’s finally able to do something with himself that doesn’t include talking or thinking. Just the repetitive motion of his rolling pin. (But he’s still thinking about the fact that Graham thought he was flirting with someone as unattainable and handsome as Tim who’s probably in a relationship with Sasha already. And even if he weren’t, he wouldn’t be interested in Martin in this kind of way, anyways. People like Tim seldomly are. – People like Tim never are.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- The first part is about Young Martin dealing with his due to depression absent-growing mother through food. Graphic depictions of Martin baking a pie for his mother.  
> \- Afterwards, pie gets mentioned a few times (not graphic though)
> 
> * * *
> 
> the first paragraph utilises three sentences of pushing daisies 02x08, the original text ist "At this moment, Young Ned is 9 years, 9 months, 15 days, 10 hours and 2 minutes old. Awakened by loneliness-induced insomnia, he found himself in desperate need of comfort. [...] And “comfort,” for Ned, meant pie. The risks were great, but Young Ned rationalized his rogue impulse baking as sheep-counting. [...] And Young Ned learned that even a forkful of immediate gratification can lead to a world of grave consequences. [...] A lesson to be learned again years later at [...]"  
> [Pushing Daisies #208 "Comfort Food" 09/12/08 Final Draft Act One, p. 2.](http://livingdeadguy.com/wp-content/uploads/2013/02/Pushing-Daisies-Ep-208.pdf)
> 
> * * *
> 
> thanks for reading ♡


	7. G is for Giving in

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Jon gets coffee with Melanie and Georgie and tells them about his absolutely existing holidate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the delay, it was my birthday and i severly overestimated my time for this fic, lol
> 
> _Arrive. Raise hell. Leave._  
>  [[225](https://tears-into-wine.livejournal.com/57439.html?thread=664671#t664671)]
> 
> **CN: Food (mentioned)**

Jon shoves his hands deeper into his pockets and tries to brace himself against the cold wind tugging at his scarf. It’s a Saturday, barely half past one and he’s probably way too early. It’s this thing that he does where he thinks he should get tube prior to the one he has to take, only to get squeamish and take the one prior to that one. Jon really hates being late.

He walks past the Museum of Childhood and is almost able to see the green exterior of the Gallery Café. It’s the same café Georgie used to drag him for open mic or music nights or art exhibitions he wasn’t really that interested in. He disliked the metal chairs and the small round tables but adored the wooden floor and their sweets and coffee selection.

Even though neither Georgie nor he live near St. Margaret’s House anymore, they still come back now and then to get coffee or attend the open mic nights. (Jon’s underwhelmed as ever, but he likes spending time with Georgie, so he succumbs to his capricious fate.)

It’s way too cold to wait outside for Georgie to arrive, so he pulls open the door and is met by warm, deliciously smelling air. He unbuttons the coat he grabbed without looking while hastening out the door. It’s a bit large on him and the sleeves cover his hands almost entirely, but it kept him warm well enough.

Lazily, he lets his eye wander in search of an empty table near the back. However, his eye meets Georgie’s and – and Melanie’s, smug expression on her face, chin propped up on her hand. They wave at him and he makes his way over to them.

“Beat ya,” Georgie says in a fond tone of voice, pulling back the chair next to hers. “Melanie thought you’d be ten minutes early, I said it would be at least twenty.”

“We’ve been here for an hour,” Melanie intercepts. “Georgie’s lying. She was sure you’d be here some time around one, and half past.”

Jon wrinkles his nose and drapes his coat over the back of the chair before he sits down. “I’m not usually this early.”  
“Jon, we were living together for many, many years,” Georgie says unimpressed, “I know your habits.”

He shrugs dismissively, clasping his hands underneath the table. Right now, he feels a bit out of his element, if he’s being completely honest. He didn’t expect Melanie to be her, thought he would be alone with Georgie and could talk to her about his predicament regarding his non-existent Christmas date. He could have looked her right in the eye and said: Georgie, I won’t be able to make it until Christmas and Melanie is going to be a pain in the backside, so, please, for the love of The Admiral, help me. It would have been embarrassing and utterly mortifying, but at least she would only laugh for so long until she’d help him get out of his bet with Melanie, while keeping his pride somewhat intact.

Now that Melanie is with them, he cannot say a single word about the situation or she’ll never let him live it down that she was somewhat right about his inability to come up with one single person he’d like to spend time with in a completely platonic setting. (Even though that’s not right. He would enjoy Sasha’s or Tim’s company just fine. But they’re not available, so why would he dwell on _that_ thought any further.)

“It’s been awfully cold today,” Georgie says, when Jon doesn’t reply. “But I’m glad you could make it.”

“It’ll do him some good to get out of his basement once in a while,” Melanie says, curiously studying her own fingernails.

Jon sighs and retorts: “It’s souterrain, Melanie.” Even though all of them know the few windows of the Archives are barely touching the surface, only enough to show the sole of by-passing shoes now and then.

Georgie flicks Jon’s nose without preamble and then tries to do the same with Melanie, but Melanie’s reaction is a tad faster than Jon’s and she dodges underneath Georgie’s arm.

“Ha!”

Rubbing his nose, Jon contemplates getting up and leaving. His Melanie quota is already filled for the day, but Georgie had seemed so happy just now seeing him come close that he can’t bring himself to actually do it.

“Melanie, bird,” Georgie says, after she successfully flicked Melanie’s nose. “Could you please get us something to drink?” The tones of voice she uses makes it abundantly clear that she wants to defuse the situation by physical distance. 

Surprisingly, Melanie gets up and walks towards the counter, already accustomed with Jon’s and Georgie’s usual. 

Georgie reaches over the table and grabs Jon’s hand with both of hers, allowing the heat of her fingers to seep into his cold, cold skin. (He didn’t even realise how cold his hands had been when he had entered the café. A shiver runs down his back and for a short moment, he relishes in her closeness and her warmth.)

“Sorry,” Georgie says softly after a moment. “Melanie’s had a few bad days, and I had hoped that it would do her some good to get out of our flat. Not that I’m apologising on her behalf, that’s something between the two of you, but I should have given you a head’s up and I forgot.” 

Jon sighs. “It’s alright.” It’s not, not really. At the same time, though, it’s utterly futile to argue about it now. Melanie’s here and Georgie wouldn’t send her away just because Jon’s too proud to admit his failure in her presence. (Or Georgie probably would send Melanie away, if Jon asked, but Jon doesn’t _want_ to ask that of Georgie.)

A curt nod, and Georgie’s already thinking about something else again, so it seems, because she locks eyes with him and says: “You wanted to talk about Christmas?”

Jon breathes in sharply. This is the moment he has to decide on whether he’s ready to admit defeat or if he’d rather put a good face on the matter. He’s about to open his mouth to tell Georgie that he’s surrendering and that he just isn’t the type to make friends, when, out of the corner of his eye, he sees Melanie bracing herself to carry three mugs at the same time, and his mouth decides to talk without his brain’s assistance: “I have a date.”

Georgie’s smile grows impossibly wide and she asks: “Is it romantic or platonic?” Then she narrows her eyes. “Jonathan Sims, you’re not really bringing a stranger into my house, are you? I know, I said you could but I’d rather you wouldn’t.”

“He’s not a stranger, Georgie,” Jon says indignantly, before he can think better of it.

“Who’s not a stranger?” Melanie asks while sitting down on her chair and handing out the mugs of coffee she bought for them.

Georgie grins, leaning far too much into Melanie’s space, and stagewhispers: “Jon’s mystery date.”

Melanie takes a deliberate sip of her cappuccino and deadpans: “Jon has a mystery date.”

“For Christmas,” Jon elaborates, and Georgie repeats (with much more enthusiasm in her voice): “For Christmas!”

“Okay.” Melanie leans back on her chair, sceptically crossing her arms in front of her chest. “Tell us about them, Jon.”

Almost choking on nothing in his attempt to swallow the mouthful of coffee he just took, Jon tries to reason with himself that this is not the end. He can still find someone willing to go with him to Georgie’s Christmas party. He just needs to keep his description as vague as possible without being suspiciously vague. He can do that. Absolutely. No problem.

“He’s, ah, he’s nice,” Jon says, immediately cringing at his choice of words. Many people are nice, most of the people Jon likes are nice. Being nice is not the ultimate compliment he sometimes thinks it is. “Good company. Very, ah, very interested in my research.” Underneath the table, his free hand starts tugging at the seam of his sweater.

“So, you met through work?” Georgie asks and sounds almost disappointed, while Melanie looks absolutely and completely unfazed.

Jon shakes his head furiously. “No, no, no, we, ah, we met outside of work.” He pauses, unsure of what to say next. “Through a– a mutual friend.” The tip of his index finger finds a loose thread and he starts tugging at it. “Didn’t hit it off right away, but he’s, yeah, he’s nice.”

Georgie’s left hand leaves the bundle of their hands and tugs a stray curl of his hair behind his ear again, then she says: “I’m really happy for you, Jon.”

And, all of a sudden, Jon feels incredibly bad for doing this. He needs to find a date as soon as possible. Georgie can never know that he lied to her. (Although Jon must confess that he feels a tad bit proud of himself that he’s actually able to lie to Georgie. Usually, he’s a really, really bad liar.)

What he says is: “We’ll see, what happens.”


	8. H is for Holidate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Jon asks Martin to be his holidate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "show don't tell," they say, but i don't show. i never show. this is an essay for university, there is nothing to show, only things to tell. i am sorry.
> 
> _highlight of the week: talking to you_  
>  [[#_3008](https://daswaisenhaus.livejournal.com/566.html?thread=369206#t369206)]
> 
> **CN: Food (mentioned)**

Without any conscious thought, Jon’s feet carry him inside the tube towards Chelsea. He’s pretty sure, Melanie and Georgie are still way too curious about his non-existent date, as their questioning only trickled down but never quite stopped during their conversation. He thought making it abundantly clear that it was a platonic date would make Georgie and Melanie lose interest sooner or later, but every little detail spurred them on even further. (Georgie had seemed so genuinely happy for him to have broadened his social circle. Almost as happy as when he had introduced her to Tim after moving in together.)

The prospect of coming home to an empty flat had put Jon off, and before he could think any better of it, he found himself not too far from _The Piehole_. (Should he be concerned that his first impulse is to go to a restaurant rather than a real human being? He feels like he should be concerned.)

The bell above the door jingles softly when he enters _The Piehole_.

The restaurant is filled with families and groups of friends, which shouldn’t surprise Jon, it’s Saturday afternoon after all, but he’s disappointed, nonetheless. Hesitantly, he walks over to the counter and is greeted by Joshua with the fakest smile Jon has ever seen on him. (Which says a lot, actually. In the short span of time, Jon has known Joshua he had learned quickly that Joshua liked to keep to himself, party into the wee hours and smile as sarcastically as customers as possible without getting caught.)

“Jon, pleasure to see you,” Joshua welcomes him even though they both know he couldn't care less for Jon being there.

Jon nods in greeting. “Hello, Joshua.”

“The usual?” Joshua asks and nods towards the sky-patterned étagère displaying several kinds of pie. Among them Jon’s favourite, apple.

Jon shakes his head. “Just coffee, please.”

He takes a seat at the counter, feet dangling in the air, unable to reach the floor, and takes in the arc on the wall separating the kitchen from the dining area. Studies the small golden ornaments he has never noticed before, and the red panelling right beneath the ceiling. For the first time, he takes in the lovely composition of the round hatch underneath the centre of the arc. The green-red-golden colour-scheme and the symmetry of the architecture.

Maybe, Jon’s working too much while sitting in _The Piehole_ , if he only now realises the love and care that is hidden inside every detail of the restaurant. He wonders what else he could have missed.

Suddenly, Martin’s in his line of vision, holding up a pot of black coffee and asking: “Regular or decaf?” As if Jon would ever order decaf. (The gesture’s considerate, though. Martin seems to be prepared for every will and whim of a customer. Jon appreciates it.)

“Regular,” Jon replies and reaches for the cup in front of him to offer it to the coffee-giving hand of Martin. Strangely fascinated, Jon watches Martin pour coffee into his cup, and he clears his throat awkwardly. He says: “Orbit’s probably hiding.” 

It’s not a question, but Martin answers, nonetheless: “Probably. Saturday’s aren’t her favourite day of the week.” He shrugs and reaches underneath the counter to get a novelty mug approximately twice the size of Jon’s white, undecorated cup. 

Without looking at Jon, he asks: “What’s eating you, Jon?” 

Martin reaches for the hot water dispenser and fills his mug with water, before adding a teabag. Then he turns around again and faces Jon who’s still thinking about what he could reply.

“You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to,” Martin says softly. “You have my ear, though. It’s time for my lunch break anyway. So …” He trails off in the end, nervously shifting his weight and reaching up to scratch at his neck.

And maybe that’s why Jon sighs fountain-deep towards the marrow of his bones, the undemanded but appreciated gentleness of Martin’s faulty attempts of small talk tugging at the corners of his heart.

“It’s nothing major,” Jon says slowly. “More of an easily preventable and avoidable predicament of my own thoughtlessness.” He swirls his black coffee with a spoon, before adding a dash of the oat milk that Martin’s placed next to him just a few seconds prior. 

Martin furrows his brow and says seemingly without thinking: “I can’t imagine you doing anything without thinking it through.” 

Apparently, he then realises what he has said and a blush spreads across his whole face. He stammers: “I mean– You always seem really, uh, thorough when you work. So, I thought, uh– well, I guess I assumed.” He scrunches up his nose.

The noise Jon makes at that is somewhere between a scoff and a chuckle and he himself isn’t entirely sure if he’s more amused or annoyed at Martin’s assumption. The only thing he is sure of is that his mouth is once again faster than him: “I would be thankful if my work ethic would translate to interpersonal relationships.” He shrugs. “As it is, I’m invited to a Christmas celebration which requires, apparently, an even number of attendees, so when asked I may have exaggerated the number of people I would bring along.”

“How many did you say you’d bring?” Martin asks earnestly confused, clearly overestimating the amount of people Jon spends time with and his willingness to bring them along to anything. (Which makes sense if you consider the fact that Martin doesn’t know that Jon has to take Georgie to every family gathering or workplace function if he doesn’t want to turn up alone.)

Jon stares at him. “One.”

“Oh,” Martin says. He starts to twist the mug in his hands. Softly, almost like he’s talking more to himself than to Jon, he says: “Makes sense, most people are occupied on Christmas.” He turns his gaze on Jon. “Like, with family, you know?” He laughs self-deprecatingly. “Sometimes, I forget that, too.”

For a moment, they look at each-other and Jon looks at everything except Martin’s pink cheeks and the freckles that span over his entire face and down his neck. Instead, he studies the seemingly well-loved cotton of Martin’s jumper and the carefully rolled up sleeves. The long, flour speckled apron and half-way washed off red stains on his hands and wrists. (Cherry maybe? Not that it would matter in any way.)

He tries to imagine what Martin must see looking at him. Maybe the rings beneath his eyes. Or his rectangular glasses (that should definitely be cleaned again). Or maybe the grey streaks in his hair. Maybe Martin really takes a look at the tiny scars scattered over Jon’s face and neck. (And he must come to the same conclusion as Jon himself. That while Martin’s freckles mirror Jon’s scars on the first glance, Jon’s as rough as he looks.)

Jon takes a sip of his coffee and clears his throat. “As I said, it was entirely preventable. I think the thing that’s bothering me the most is that I’ll lose the bet the girlfriend of my ex proposed. She’s insufferable.”

“What did you bet?” Martin shifts his weight again, leaning against the cupboard behind him. He doesn’t show the slightest inclination to come around the counter and sit down next to Jon, and Jon’s uncertain if he’s disappointed or grateful that Martin keeps his distance.

“She bet twenty-five pounds that I’m going to either turn up alone or not at all,” Jon says dismissively, even though he still feels a slight pang of something in his chest. (The realisation that Melanie is right. The indignation of the wrongly accused. The longing for a friendly heart. All of this, none of this, who knows.)

Martin puffs up his cheeks. “That’s not very nice.”

“No,” Jon agrees. “No, it’s not. But she’s not wrong either.” He shrugs and reaches for his portemonnaie. “Guess it’s time to admit defeat and take the scorn and derision in stride.”

“Or,” Martin says hesitantly right as Jon pulls out a few notes, “you could take me.” A blush blooms so violently on his cheek, Jon fears for a second that Martin’s going to faint. “Bring me, I mean, to the, uh, party that is.” 

Jon’s hand, still clasping the money, sinks down onto his lap and he tilts his head in contemplation. This is the worst thing Martin could have said to him. Or he’s in the worst kind of mood to be offered such an easy way out. Because he actually starts to entertain the thought.

“I mean,” Martin continues when Jon doesn’t say anything and just stares at him, “you don’t have to, obviously. This is just … an offer, I guess?” He looks away as if he couldn’t take meeting Jon’s eye anymore. “Nevermind, this is– forget it, I didn’t mean to impose.”

“No, no,” Jon replies quickly. “You surprised me, is all.” He sinks back down onto his stool and chews on his lower lip for a few seconds, thinking that this is truly not the most terrible option. Martin’s nice enough, pretty decent actually. He always makes sure to ask Jon about his work and the things he’s been up to, and even if Jon doesn’t really want to talk about his private life Martin doesn’t push him or pry into aby aspects Jon’s not ready to share, yet. If Jon thinks about it, Martin’s good company. Quiet and unobtrusive but pleasant and inviting. (On a surface level Jon is aware of the fact that this doesn’t sound like a glowing review, but it is. He feels welcomed, not merely tolerated. Which is, unfortunately, more than he can say about the majority of people he has met in his life.)

“This is strictly platonic.” Jon’s eyes snap back at Martin and he leans forward on his stool. He really needs Martin to know that he’s not obligated to fill in a fake romantic partner or whatever. That he wouldn’t expect anything out of the ordinary of him. “This is not a romantic date.”

Martin’s eyes grow comically wide and he shakes his head in agreement. “Yeah, I know, yeah, okay.”

A small smile tugs at the corner of Jon’s mouth, because: This is kind of perfect. In the heat of the moment, Jon hadn’t realised that he basically described Martin K. Blackwood as his ultimate holiday date. (Holidate, Jon, just call it a holidate.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- As always, Martin's restaurant is namedropped and the pies are talked about (briefly and non-graphic)
> 
> * * *
> 
> til they didn't cast me as a voice actor for the new winx series. i didn't apply, but netflix could have still cast me.  
> kudos and comments would make my day c:


	9. I is for Insufferable Friends

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Jon takes Martin to meet Sasha and Tim, so he can get a picture of who Jon is and if he really wants to be Jon's holidate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> idk why but every time martin makes an appearance, my brain just ... doesn't want to continue writing?? idgi, i love martin, i love writing martin??   
> well, anyways, here we go!
> 
> cn: food |  
>  _Unter diesen iss und trink, unter diesen sitze und gefalle denen, deren Macht groß ist._  
> [+_334](https://gedanken-zirkus.livejournal.com/5479.html?thread=313191#t313191)
> 
> (among these eat and drink, among these sit and please those whose might is great)
> 
> **CN: Joking about belonging to the bi-community**

It’s mostly for practice, Jon reasons, because Melanie and Georgie definitively can’t know that he met Martin only a few weeks ago. (Although Georgie would probably be over the moon to see him interact with anyone outside of their squad so closely so soon.) It’s not like they’re real friends, anyway. Martin’s just a kind soul saving him from utter embarrassment and mortification.

That’s what Jon thinks, what he says is: “I invited someone to come along.”

Sasha and Tim look up from their sign-up sheet and stare at him. 

“What?” He deadpans. He clasps his hands in his lap and meets their gaze unwaveringly. Tim leans across the table, not enough to invade Jon’s space, but enough to make the hair on Jon’s arms stand up because of their closeness. Next to him, Sasha leans back and crosses her arms in front of her chest.

“Jonathan Sims,” Tim says gleefully, “inviting someone to Trivia Night.” He raises his eyebrows, barely able to contain his grin. “Scandalous!”

“It’s not unheard of,” Jon replies curtly. 

Sasha’s head sways from side to side, a contemplating look on her face. She says slowly: “It’s not something that happens.”

“It’s Georgie, isn’t it?” Tim asks. For a moment, he looks at Sasha. “If Jon brings anyone along, it’s Georgie.”

Apparently in utter agreement with Tim, Sasha’s already nodding, when Jon says: “It’s not Georgie.” 

Sometimes he wishes, his face would move on its own accord, displaying the things he feels. Sometimes he’s glad that his face just kind of blanks. In this case, he’s not sure if he wants them to know what’s going on inside of him.

“What do you mean, it’s not Georgie?” Tim places his elbows on the table and his chin in his hands. “Did we unlock some kind of secret background information about you?” Finally, he lets his grin break free.

“Oh,” Sasha joins in, “do you think Jon doesn’t tell his other friends about us?” She fakes a gasp. “You ever think about the fact that Jon keeps us secret like he’s ashamed of us, even though we’re his most amazing friends?” 

“Most amazingest,” Tim corrects, then he fakes a hurt look. “I can’t believe Jon’s ashamed of us.”

“I’m not– I’m not a _shamed_ ,” Jon intercepts but Tim and Sasha just carry on.

Throwing back her head and an arm over her eyes, Sasha cries: “Just once I want to be seen with Jon in broad daylight. Want to be _known_.”

“Georgie only learned about my existence when I moved in with Jon,” Tim whines, burying his face in both of his hands now. “My best friend! Denying my very right to be at the source of Jon related gossip! Unbelievable!”

“This is blatantly false,” Jon objects because he distinctly remembers Georgie telling him to stop complaining about Tim way before she moved out. But Sasha and Tim don’t listen to him.

“Just think about all the other things Jon could hide from us,” Sasha says in a stage whisper, slowly bringing herself upright again. “He could be a spy or a secret agent for a rival institute.”

“He could be waking the dead with a touch of his finger,” Tim stage whispers back at the same time that Jon asks: “What could possibly be a rival institute?”

“They’re stealing from us,” Sasha replies earnestly. “And you’re helping them. Why would you do such a despicable thing?”

Jon opens his mouth to say something like I’m not doing anything but Tim pips him at the post: “It’s all linked to the mystery friend, Sash, they’re working at the rival institute and Jon’s only hope to salvage their crumbling friendship is by finding the ultimate information to bring down the Magnus Institute.”

“Why is their friendship crumbling?” Sasha asks, feigning worry.

“Because he spends so much time with us, he’s neglecting his friend,” Tim explains patiently. 

“Oh no,” Sasha says.

“Oh no, indeed,” Tim agrees.

“You’re both terrible,” Jon says. “Maybe I should go and reschedule to an evening without the two of you.” He won’t because he wants to give Martin the chance to meet Jon without the pressure of one-on-one time. (Because even though they’ve been spending quite an awful lot of time together in the last few weeks, the circumstances have been quite different. They never met explicitly to interact with each other. And at least for Jon, this is anxiety inducing as it comes.)

“No!” Tim snatches the sign-up form and holds it up for Jon to see. “We already put your name on the form. You can’t go now.” 

“You haven’t submitted yet,” Jon points out smugly, finally on safe ground again. (As much as he appreciates Tim’s and Sasha’s dramatic performances, it can get quite overwhelming if he’s the centre of their bickering.)

Tim rolls his eyes. “Because we’re still waiting for the name of your friend.” He pauses and fakes a gasp (almost as believable as Sasha). “Or don’t you want them to be on our team?”

“Jimathan Sons,” Sasha chides and shakes her head disapprovingly. Jon’s groaned Oh, no, not you, too is barely audible, “you’re not going to keep us from being on the same team as your friend. We’re going to rock this pub quiz and there’s nothing you can do about it.”

Wordlessly agreeing, Tim picks up the pen again and nods encouragingly towards the sign-up form. It takes two or three deep breaths to make his voice sound as casual as Jon can manage, when he thinks he can actually talk, he says: “Martin.”

Sasha and Tim stare at him again. Either unfazed or patiently waiting for the punchline.

“Blackwood,” Jon tries to clarify. “Martin K. Blackwood.” More silent stares, Jon starts to fidget on his chair. “Nobody knows what the K. stands for.”

“It’s a mystery,” Tim says slowly.

And Sasha murmurs: “He really doesn’t say, huh.”

“Since when are you cosy with Martin?” Tim asks then, tilting his head in inquisitiveness. Absentmindedly, he jots Martin’s name down on their sign-up form, then he puts the pen away again. “And when’s he coming?”

“Should be here any minute now,” Jon replies, avoiding the first question. He’s not cosy with Martin. If anything, they’re acquainted. “And I would appreciate if you were a little less …” He makes an all-encompassing gesture with his hand. “like this.”

“You mean: Dazzling?” Tim asks, grinning.

“Absolutely stunning?” Sasha continues.

“Pure delight trapped in human bodies?”

“The very best version of ourselves?”

“Overwhelming,” Jon interrupts brusquely, before they can really pick up pace and he loses his train of thought.

Simultaneously, they lean back as if physical distance would make it easier for them to back off and calm down. Pursing her lips, Sasha seems to study his face for a sign of discomfort, evaluating if they took it too far. Tim takes the more direct approach and asks: “Too much?”

“Very much so,” Jon says but the soft smile playing at the corner of his lips betrays him. 

Sasha shrugs noncommittedly and retorts: “We’re gonna take it down a notch or two.” Mirth sneaks into her voice though when she continues. “Although Martin already knows that Tim’s insufferable.”

“Hey!” In feigned outrage, Tim shoves at Sasha’s shoulder, almost pushing her out of their booth directly to the feet of Martin who’s all of a sudden standing right next to their table. 

Jon, who didn’t anticipate Martin to be here already, startles and mutters: “ _Je_ sus _Christ, Mar_ tin.”

“You don’t think I’m insufferable, Martin, don’t you?” Tim asks without batting an eye, no hesitation in his voice. Which means that he’s either not easily scared or has seen Martin approach their table.

Kind of put on the spot and visibly uncomfortable, Martin stammers: “N-No?” The way his voice goes up at the end implies a question, but Jon’s pretty sure that Martin wouldn’t think of people as insufferable.

“This is why Martin is my favourite,” Tim says softly, and Martin's already red cheeks darken even further.

Sasha intervenes: “I thought Jon’s your favourite.”

She seems pretty convinced, even though Jon’s absolutely sure that Sasha is Tim’s favourite. But he won’t get into this argument now. Especially with Martin’s awkward expression and the way he clutches the strap of his satchel bag. 

Jon scootches over to make room for Martin and Martin actually takes a seat after a few hesitating seconds. Martin smiles at him and Jon tries to smile back. (He thinks he fails rather spectacularly.)

“Hey,” Martin says softly and warmth spreads through Jon’s chest and creeps up his neck. 

Briefly meeting his gaze, Jon replies: “You made it.” Maybe a little too soft around the edges to be a plain statement. More a subtle display of relief and light embarrassment. 

“Yeah, I, uh, I suppose I did.” Martin looks a little less intimidated now that he’s on eye level with Jon, Sasha and Tim. At the same time, however, he also looks much more intimidating on the same bench as Jon as opposed to the many times he sat on the other side of the table. Now, he's closer than he has ever been before. (It’s less about Martin being threatening, because Martin is as threatening as a butterfly, and more about Jon’s dreading of unknown situations.)

“Hey,” Tim intercepts from the other side of their booth, and Martin retorts in the same soft voice: “Hey.”

“So, you’re actually able to sit down, huh?” Tim asks, mirth clear as day in his voice. “I was wondering about that, to be honest.”

“O my God, Tim,” Sasha stage whispers, channelling her inner mean girl (and Jon hates that he actually knows where she’s coming from), “you can’t just ask people if they’re able to sit down.”

“I’m sorry,” Martin says and it’s not entirely clear if he’s apologising or asking for clarification. Slowly, he puts down his bag and takes off his jacket, before he reaches for the leaflet-menu.

Jon shoots a warning look at Sasha and Tim, which only results in Sasha trying to hide a smile behind her hand, and Tim holding up his hands in a defensive and rejecting gesture. 

While Martin’s still busy browsing the menu, Tim says: “I’m pretty stoked for tonight.”

“Finally overcame your hump?” Sasha asks and plucks the sign-up form straight from Tim’s hands. “Thought you were ruining our evening with your negativity.”

Taking the sign-up form back and already in the process of standing up, Tim replies: “I didn’t have a hump. My good mood was temporarily a little less good, that’s all.”

Somewhat irritated, Jon furrows his brows and really takes the few seconds Tim is still standing next to their table to take in his appearance. He hadn’t noticed anything different about Tim that would hint at anything other than a splendid mood. His grins is as wide as always and he’s been joking with Sasha as usual. Tim’s quick to complain about things annoying him, and he’s equally as quick to forget about the things annoying him. So, Tim _not_ complaining about something either means that it’s nothing or that it’s something worse than just a rude co-worker. (Or maybe Tim had been complaining and Jon had only listened to the warm timbre of his voice. Sometimes, Jon does this without realising. Tim talks to him and he doesn’t process a single word, until Tim asks him a question and he tries to remember what the last thing was that Tim had been talking about, always skimming the border of getting caught. And if it wasn’t for dozens of people telling him that this is just plain bad manners and rude, maybe he would own up to it more often.)

After asking Martin if he should get something to drink for him at the bar and getting an answer, Tim salutes and leaves their table to hand in their form before the sign-up closes.

Jon turns towards Sasha and asks: “Did something happen?”

“Didn’t he chew off your ear about it?” Sasha counterquestions. Jon shakes his head. “James has been–“, she faces Martin to give him an explanation, “James is the head of the institute – well, James has been on Tim’s tail the whole day and Tim’s been texting me the whole day to complain about it.”

While Jon nods softly and makes a non-committal noise at the back of his throat, Martin asks: “Is he okay?”

“Tim?” Sasha throws a glance over her shoulder to Tim who’s standing at the bar, ordering a drink for Martin. “Yeah. James just doesn’t like it when he asks Tim to do things that he’s contractually not obliged to do and Tim declines. It’s like he takes it personally.” Angrily, she purses her lips, still looking at Tim. “Tim’s too nice for his own good sometimes and usually does the things James asks him to do, because: Why not? You know.” She puts on a weirdly accurate imitation of James’ voice. “Tim, would you mind going to Artefacts and moving thirty boxes filled to the brim with stones into another room? Oh, Tim, would you mind putting them back next week? Tim, would you mind telling Elias who’s in Research and therefore literally on the other end of the building that I’m still waiting for his report?” She groans. “James tried to do this with me, too, when I first started working at the institute. But I think I told him off enough times, so doesn’t try it as often.”

“I didn’t know about that,” Jon mutters more to himself than to Martin or Sasha.

“Most of the time, Tim’s not bothered by James’ requests,” Sasha shrugs. “I always tell him to tell James to fuck off. But so far Tim didn’t do it.”

“Not everyone is able to tell their boss off,” Martin pipes in.

Sasha shakes her head. “Tim’s plenty able, but he’s not interested in doing it. He’s not angry enough.” She inhales sharply. “But he should be.”

Silence falls over them while Martin nods uncertainly as if he wasn’t sure if it is his place to say anything at all. 

It doesn’t last long, though, as Tim makes his way back over to them and sets down a glass of water in front of Martin. He sits back down and asks: “Did I miss something?”

“We’re just wondering whether you’re the most laid-back person in existence or a tea kettle on a stove,” Sasha says nonchalantly, then she jerks her head and corrects herself: “I was wondering. I think, Jon’s unpleasantly surprised that you’re not telling him every single thought that’s going through your head.”

“Is he?” Tim looks at Jon questioningly and Jon shrugs his shoulders in a non-answer. He’s actually relieved that Sasha addressed it because he’s not sure if he would have done it. “I thought you’d probably deem it unprofessional to complain about our boss if it’s about work-related matters.” He shrugs dismissively. 

Indignantly, Jon scoffs: “It’s highly unprofessional of James to keep you from your work with things like this. You have no business moving boxes in Artefacts. They can do it themselves.”

“Thank you, Jon!” Sasha proclaims triumphantly, shoving at Tim. “I could have moved those boxes just as good. James is just a huge fucking misogynist.”

After shoving Sasha right back, Tim throws an imploring look towards Martin and questions: “Care to take a stance? My stance if possible?” Immediately, Jon’s reminded of Sasha says Martin is an eight, but I think he’s a full on ten, Care to take a stance, My stance, the right answer is: My stance and his own rather telling silence.

“I don’t know,” Martin says slowly. “They raise a good point.”

Heady with victory, Sasha whoops and extends her closed fist across the table and Martin, albeit hesitatingly, bumps their fists together.

“Betrayed by all my folks!” Tim sighs and slumps into his seat. “Stabbed in the back by the love of my life! A heavy setback for the bi-community.”

“You’re not a part of our community,” Sasha retorts in vigorous effort to suppress laughter. “You’re banned from our bi-annual meetings. From here on it’s Jon and me against the world.”

Almost like an afterthought, Sasha asks Martin: “Do you want to join Jon and me? We just had an opening.”

Tim laughs breathlessly and Sasha almost breaks, too, but everyone’s staring at Martin now, waiting in suspense for an answer.

“Oh,” Martin says at first. Then he ducks his head awkwardly and says: “I don’t think, I’m allowed to come. I’m gay.”

Waving her hand dismissively, Sasha replies: “No problem, really, we’re just gonna change it to the bi/gay-alliance. The No-Tim-Club.”

“I don’t know,” Martin deflects. “I don’t want to step on your toes, but this seems kind of mean-spirited?” He scratches at his neck and red creeps up from underneath his collar.

Maybe it’s because Jon actually realised that Martin is terribly accommodating, but he hadn’t anticipated Martin to bluntly call out Sasha. (Or maybe he should have anticipated Martin to stand with Tim who’s been talked about as ‘too nice for his own good’ and ‘not angry enough’ just a few minutes ago.)

Tim throws an arm over Sasha’s shoulders and pulls her in close, before pressing a kiss to her temple, then he tries to reassure Martin: “It’s absolutely ah-okay for her to make these jokes. I think, back in the days I literally wrote her a permit on a napkin, signature and everything.” Sasha nods and reaches for Tim’s wrist, just holding onto it.

(Involuntarily, Jon thinks about traces of lipstick on Tim’s lips. Taken aback, he shakes his head almost imperceptibly to get rid of the image.)

“Oh,” Martin says again. “I didn’t know you’re a couple.”

With a shrug that moves Tim’s arm, too, Sasha replies: “We’re not.” 

At the very same time that Jon says: “They’re not.” (And he really doesn’t want to think why he thought it would be necessary to chime in. It’s not about him, really.)

Jon bites the inner side of his cheek, but Sasha’s already studying him curiously. But thankfully without saying a word. Tim and Martin, on the other hand, don’t seem like they noticed Jon saying anything at all. Which is good, as Jon makes himself realise.

“We’re in a committed queer platonic relationship,” Tim declares proudly, “only dating on holidays.”

Subtly, Martin narrows his eyes for just a second, then he says: “So, you’re spending the holidays together?”

“Yeah, my family’s celebrating,” Sasha replies.

“I told Jon to find a holidate, too,” Tim says. “And apparently, Jon has listened to me for the first time ever.”

Jon, twisting his sleeve underneath the table, retorts: “I have not.”

And Martin, who is a bloody traitor, confesses with some trepidation: “Actually, I, uh, I kind of invited myself? I guess?”

But neither Tim nor Sasha nor Jon get a chance to say anything in response, because some member of staff steps up to the microphone and welcomes the crowd to their weekly Trivia Night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- Sasha and Jon are bi, while Tim uses bi and pan intercheangably for himself. Most of the time he prefers pan which leads sometimes to Sasha and Tim joking about his labels. It's absolutely consensual and lighthearted.
> 
> * * *
> 
> some people: tim is an angry dude  
> me: i look respectfully away, this is a season 1 inspired household
> 
> thanks for reading and shoutout at every bi/pan/omni/polyromantic and/or -sexual person, have a nice day, you rock ♥


	10. J is for Jon Sims

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Tim vents to Sasha about what a perfect pair Jon and Martin are.
> 
> (This is the chapter you notice that I just recycle the summary of what I intend to write as the chapter summary which does not necessarily line up with the contents of the chapter.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is the one about jon brushing his teeth. if you'd like to read more absolutely mundane things, hmu down below in the comments (and subscribe to my channel)
> 
> _If one’s an incident,  
>  two’s a coincidence,  
> and three’s a pattern_  
> [[842](https://tears-into-wine.livejournal.com/57439.html?thread=673887#t673887)]
> 
> **CN: Alcohol (mentioned), Fanon-typical Jon-handling, Jealousy**

**The Incident**

“You remember that guy from work who I _thought_ was my boss but who turned out to be a prematurely greyed co-worker?” Tim asks, his head hanging over the edge of Sasha's bed and his hands raised high above his body, phone clutched to keep it from falling straight into his face.

He's only half-arsing his attempt to follow the game Sasha's playing on her computer. Somewhere between talking to cute neighbours and building bridges, his mind started wandering, only taking in the ambient music and shovel noises of her game.

“Jon,” Sasha provides dutifully.

“Yeah, that's the guy,” Tim aggrees. “He brought me coffee today.”

Sasha stops playing and turns her head towards him, a look of mild irritation on her face: "Jon Sims who once told Jenny down to the cent how much the tea cost he bought for her on that coupon day? That Jon Sims got coffee. For you. After you thought he was your boss who is, as I would love to point out again, in his late forties.”

“I didn't _know_ our boss is in his late forties. I just thought he sounded posh and ... I don't know, old-ish maybe. Half past thirty, maybe. - Also, I'm pretty sure Jenny's the one who always wants everyone to pay her back every cent she advances on loan.”

“That's still a pretty bad start,” Sasha objects. “Why would he get you coffee?” Finally, she turns around the whole chair, facing him completely. Her controller laying in her lap forgotten, the music of her game continues to play over the speakers.

He drops his phone onto his chest and closes his eyes for a second. He replies: “I didn’t say he _get_ coffee for me. I said he _brought_ coffee to my desk.”

“Okay, why did he _bring_ coffee to you?” An edge of impatience has sneaked into her voice and her nails tap onto the hard plastic shell of the controller.

Tim replies: “He accidentally made two cups.”

“He,” Sasha takes a deep, steadying breath and releases it harshly, “he made two cups. Accidentally.”

“Yeah, made one, lost sight of it, made a second, found the first,” Tim recounts freely. Slowly, the blood rushing to his head makes him dizzy and he shoves his phone from his chest to flop onto his stomach. His vision goes black around the edges and he extends his arm in an attempt to steady himself. Sasha tries to catch his hand with her foot but they’re too far away from each other to actually touch.

After a moment of regaining his composure, he continues: “I mean, I get that it’s not the same as him making coffee explicitly for me. But …,” he trails off for a moment, searching for the right words, “but he thought about me? I don’t know, even though he sometimes acts like it, he doesn’t really hate me, I guess.”

“He doesn’t hate you,” Sasha agrees, still tapping on her controller but somewhat slower. “If he didn’t like you, he wouldn’t indulge you as much as he does.”

And that’s the thing, isn’t it? Jon _indulges_ Tim. He can kind of accept Tim existing in his line of vision. But he’s not looking for it, he’s not interested in spending time with Tim, like Tim is interested in spending time with Jon. 

In all honesty, Tim doesn’t even know _why_ he wants to spend time with Jon. He thinks that maybe it’s because of his incredibly embarrassing fauxpas on his first day. (He’s still trying to make up for that one.) Or maybe it’s about the fact that Danny just moved out to live who-knows-where, all on his own, and Tim’s got nobody to fret over because Sasha is actually capable of taking care of herself. (Not that Jon wouldn’t be able to, Tim knows that, but as much as Tim needs someone to slow him down and ground him, Jon seems to be someone who could need someone to mess up his structured life.) Or maybe it’s about the smallest smiles Jon displays whenever he’s pleased with his work, and the intense look of fascination whenever he talks about one of his extremely niche subjects of his. (Tim likes to think of the possibility of fondness on Jon’s face. Of contentment. Of trust.)

“This has been the first and only interaction I had with Jon which wasn’t initiated by me,” Tim says almost inaudibly.

“Oh, Tim.” Sasha’s voice is now tinged with something akin to sympathy and she rolls her chair closer to the bed, to pat his head with the palm of her flat, outstretched hand. “Let him breathe, the man didn’t have to interact with someone in the institute for about,” she makes an exaggerated thinking noise, “five hundred years. When’s the last time, someone invited Jon into their home? When’s the last time someone let Jon drink freely from their neck? Is Jon secretly living in the canalisation to avoid getting caught by van Helsing?”

“Jon’s a vampire?” Tim asks, joining in into her joking. “Damn, all the pretty boys are straight or undead or both.”

“Eww, you think Jon is _pretty_?” Sasha laughs and taps his forehead. “You think Jon is _straight_?”

“Well,” Tim replies, “he didn’t give me straight vibes per se, but if he were interested in men, he’d be obviously interested in me, as I am a gift to humankind, loved by every gender attracted to men.”

“I’m not attracted to you”, Sasha says challengingly.

Tim shakes his head. “This is a blatant lie because I distinctly remember you being all over me this morning.” He grins. “Two Times.”

“Sometimes I don’t know why I put up with you,” Sasha states before turning back to her game, controller already back in hand.

Taking his phone back into his hand, Tim singsongs: “Because you _loooove_ me platonically.”

“That must be it,” Sasha replies but it’s clear that she’s already back into her game, Tim and the Jon Coffee Incident forgotten.

**The Coincidence**

“No, no, no,” Tim says and flops down onto Sasha's couch. “You don’t get it, Sasha! Let me make this explicitly clear.”

“You made it explicitly clear,” Sasha retorts with a defeated sigh from the kitchen. “Twice.”

“And yet you’re not able to really _grasp_ the bottom line of the story.” He shakes his head disapprovingly and his fingers start to tap an incessant rhythm on his jeans-clad knee. “Okay, one last time, Sash.”

For a few seconds, Sasha doesn’t say anything, and Tim starts to worry that she’s finally putting her foot down. But then she groans dramatically, and he knows she’s still indulging him.

Sasha says: “What happened?”

“I’m so very glad you ask,” Tim replies and sighs long and deep. “So, as you remember, last night we had this little housewarming party, even though it was more of a flatwarming party, but you know what I mean. And it was really nice, you and Danny got to know Georgie and Melanie, I had a real blast gossiping with them about Jon. The whole kit and kaboodle and all that jazz.”

Holding a too full mug of ginger tea, Sasha comes out of the kitchen and places it on a coaster on the coffee table. Then she taps against his temple with the tips of her fingers and makes a shooing gesture.

“I think Jon was really relieved when everything went down smoothly,” Tim continues while he lifts his head and his shoulders from the couch to make room for Sasha. “He’s not that obvious about it but he’s constantly strung up.” Sasha nods absentmindedly while sliding beneath his head which he drops instantly into her lap when she’s seated. “But I’d like to think that at the end of the night, he was somewhat close to ease? As close as Jon can get at least.”

He looks up from her lap and pats himself on the head demandingly. 

“This is where I’m still with you,” Sasha says before her fingers sink into Tim’s hair, softly prodding at his scalp.

“Okay.” Tim closes his eyes and sinks even further into the cushion. “So, then you were all leaving. And it’s just Jon and me, alright?” 

Although he can’t see her nodding, he feels the motion a little bit in the hand that’s still carding through his hair. She’s probably only doing it until her tea has cooled down enough to be held in both her hands.

“After a rudimentary clean-up of the flat, I was ready to just, you know, crash but Jon insisted that I brush my teeth first,” Tim says and they both know that this is where he’s going to lose her. “And I was like, okay, yeah, I get it, hygiene is very important. Especially after drinking and eating sweets. So, I agreed, and we began brushing our teeth and he was just so awkward not to meet my eyes in the mirror or look at me at all.”

He makes a pained mewling sound at the back of his throat and Sasha intensifies the pressure of her fingertips.

“It's just, it was weirdly domestic,” Tim says after a few seconds. “And he stood in our bathroom for like ten minutes just intently brushing his teeth. Who does that, Sasha? Who the fuck is drunk and doesn't get instantly bored with brushing their teeth?”

Even though he can't see her face, he's sure that she purses her lips in thought before replying: “Apparently, Jon does.”

“Yeah, fucking Jon does,” Tim says but it's lacking any heat. “I told him multiple times to just go to bed already, but he mostly ignored me and brushed his teeth. And when he finally _did_ listen to me, I still had to basically push him out of the door and towards his own bedroom. And while I’m _literally putting him to bed_ , he tells me – in detail, might I add – about his routine. The inner side of his lower jaw, the inner side of his upper jaw. Then the outsides, first upper then lower. It was _so_ important to him, you can’t imagine the knowledge I now possess about the right pressure of the brush and the perfect angle of the bristles. – He's a weird one, isn't he.” 

It's not a question and there's no need for Sasha to say anything at all. For a moment, they silently enjoy each other’s company and Sasha dutifully keeps massaging his scalp. He's so very much thankful for her existence and sometimes he doesn't know how he could have ever lived without her.

“And you’re living with him,” Sasha concludes. “I’m still not really sure what it is you’re so very concerned about. But.” She taps his nose. “I think it’s gonna be good for your not living alone anymore.”

“I’m thirty, I should be living alone,” Tim retorts, screwing up his nose and opening his eyes to look at her.

Sasha rejects his argument with a shrug. “I think, living alone doesn’t do you any favours. You’re not … very good at it.”

“It’s literally possible to eat off my floor whereas your flat looks like a twenty-something’s bachelor flat,” Tim tries to argue, but Sasha doesn’t let him get away with it.

She says: “That’s it, really. You need a lived in flat, someone’s mess to take care of. Why do you think we’re always at my place?”

“Because you don’t want to wear anything but joggers in your free time while simultaneously refusing to get out of your flat without proper trousers,” Tim objects again. As if he had any chance of changing Sasha’s mind. (Mostly, he’s arguing for the sake of it. His own flat is too quiet and too empty without Danny or Sasha or any other friend of his. He likes to wash Sasha’s dishes while she’s in the shower. Or fold her laundry while she’s out, jogging. He likes to cook for her after a long day of work. He likes to keep busy but all on his own, it’s nigh on impossible. There’s not enough laundry to fold, no dishes to be washed and put away, and cooking for just himself seems rather pointless.)

“It’s mostly because I hate doing the dishes. It's dirty soap water and you stick your hands into it,” Sasha retorts, only half joking. “But at least sixteen percent are on your suspiciously clean flat.”

“That’s a weirdly specific number,” Tim says and catches her hand mid-air, before she can tap his nose again. Slowly bringing it down to his lips, he places a few tender kisses on her knuckles.

She laughs softly. “You’re a weirdly specific person.”

“It's about the clean kitchen afterwards,” Tim replies.

“Yeah,” Sasha says with a sigh, “I still don't get it.” And they both know she's not talking about the dishes anymore.

**The Pattern**

“Did you _see_ them?”

Tim's voice is too loud in Sasha's empty flat. His cheeks are flushed from the cold and his hair is distraught from the wind. Sasha's not better off, her nose an angry red and her fingers cold like ice.

“Jon and Martin?”

Sasha's reply is muffled by the shirt she's pulling over her head. He wants to do the same, getting rid of his clothes and standing underneath the hot spray of Sasha's shower, but he's too excited, too giddy, full of vim and vigour. So, he pulls her in close, digging his fingertips into her waist and she shrieks: “You wretched thing!”

But she’s laughing anyways, so he pulls her in even closer, burying his head in her neck and running his nose up her carotid. Half-heartedly, she pushes at him and says: “I don’t want your snot on me.”

“You can lie to yourself, but we all know that you want everything of me everywhere on you,” he jokes and softly bites at her skin. “Just confess, Sash. You’re going to feel much better.”

“ _No!_ ”

Sasha shoves at him again, only to wrap her arms around his waist in the next moment, slipping her hands underneath his shirt. Part of him regrets his actions, but he can’t bring himself to pull back.

Her voice is right next to his ear and her breath meets his skin, when she repeats: “What about Jon and Martin?”

“They would make a cute couple, wouldn’t they?” Tim’s question is spoken more against her jawline than anything else. From this position, he can smell the faintest traces of her perfume, and can feel her rabid heartbeat on his cheekbone. She’s big and soft and muscley and he rather enjoys that he doesn’t have to bend down too much to press soft kisses against the tender point underneath her ear.

And he can feel the vibration of her laughter echoing inside his skin, when she says: “Nothing about Jon screams cute. For me at least.”

“It’s your,” he pauses to press another kiss into her skin, “inability to find bliss in the small things.”

“Is this about Jon being the smallest bean or are you just trying to insult me?” Her hands creep upwards on his back and her short nails dig into his shoulder blades, the inner side of her of her arms lined up with his ribcage.

“Neither,” he replies with certainty. His arms snake around her waist and he wishes he could have had the foresight of getting rid of his shirt first, because skin on skin contact always manages to ground him. “It’s about the mooneyes Martin made at Jon every time Jon knew the answer to a question nobody could possible know the answer to.” He clears his throat and tries to imitate Jon’s accent, walking the line between spot-on and over the top. “Actually, Tim, hocus-pocus derived from the medieval times when no-one could understand the mass which was held in Latin and people mistook the phrase ‘hoc est corpus meum’ as words of enchantment.” He huffs. “How does he _know_ any of that. I thought we were talking about _Hocus Pocus_ , the Bette Midler-movie.” (And how does Tim manage to keep everything Jon says close to his heart?)

Tim tightens his hold on Sasha and she tries to pull him in even closer, without much success.

“And it’s about Jon’s little smile every time Martin basically praised him for getting something right,” Tim continues. “He doesn’t smile at me like that.”

“He does, too,” Sasha objects.

“He does not.”

Sasha groans in response and tries to swat in the direction of his head, her hands are still lying on his back, though, so she can’t even reach past his shoulder blades, and ends up tapping his skin helplessly.

“You’re terrible,” Sasha says, sinking back into him in defeat. “You wanna know what’s your real problem?”

Confusion clouds his face, and he lifts his head, making room between them, then he asks: “My real problem?”

“Yes, your real problem,” Sasha replies. He shrugs and she takes her hands off his back to bring them in front of him and cradles his face in her palms. “Your real problem is that you’re incredibly jealous and don’t want to admit it.”

When Tim doesn’t respond instantly, Sasha says: “Just confess, Tim. You’re going to feel much better.”

“I’m pan, I don’t know how to be jealous,” Tim attempts a joke, but Sasha’s earnest face, which is entirely too close to be comfortable for either of them, turns his overcompensating laugh into a nervous chuckle. “And who could it be that I’m jealous of?”

“Not who,” Sasha says softly. “What.”

Tim repeats with irritation in his voice: “What I’m jealous of?”

“Yeah.” Her thumb strokes over his cheek soothingly and he concentrates on the small hairs of her eyebrows that have been regrowing since she last plucked them. “You’ve been friends with Jon for ages, you’re living with him. And there comes Martin, who’s gorgeous and every man’s dream come true, and sweeps Jon off his feet. He could literally, I guess.”

Telling himself to keep his mouth shut to see where she’s coming from, he traces her features with his eyes.

“It’s absolutely normal to be a little jealous,” Sasha continues as if she was already sure that he wouldn’t interrupt her. “I mean, frankly, I would be, too, if you’d have a new friend and you’d seem to be closer with them than with me.” She shrugs. “But you shouldn’t be. Jon’s not going to replace you in the same way you wouldn’t replace me. People aren’t interchangeable and Jon deserves a few more friends. Or many more. As he pleases.”

Tim wants to interject that he _knows_ that Jon has every right in the world to make as many friends as he wants. However, before he can actually open his mouth to do it, something inside him resonates with Sasha’s words. It took so long for Jon to accept Tim as a co-worker and as a friend even longer. It took ages for Jon to lose the edge around Tim and just be himself. (Without all of his walls and deflections and dismissals.) 

“I imagine in your situation it’s quite a bit tougher,” Sasha concludes and startles Tim out of his stupor. “But I wouldn’t know.”

“My _situation_?” He repeats dutifully because he can’t really manage to say anything else.

Before she responds, she presses a loving kiss to his forehead: “I was this close – my fingers are touching – to just outright say _condition_. So, yeah, that’s that.”

“My _condition_?” He repeats a little more bewildered now.

She nods and lets go of his face, then she starts unbuttoning her jeans and says: “You know, the whole _infatuated with Jon_ -thing you got going for you since, well, forever.”

“Infatuated with Jon? I’m not infatuated with Jon?”

Wiggling out of her jeans and tugging the socks off her feet, she retorts: “Yeah, absolutely smitten, heels over head in love. It’s rather endearing, really.”

Tim watches her throwing all her clothes on an armchair in the middle of the room and walks almost automatically towards the heap to at least roughly fold it and put his own clothes to Sasha’s. His hands work on their own accord and he thinks that Sasha could actually be right. He thinks of the first time he met Jon and the way he was instantly taken by Jon’s subtle handsomeness. He thinks of the handful of times Jon had shared information with Tim he wouldn’t share with just anyone, and the way Tim had felt content just knowing that Jon trusted him. He thinks of the pleasant warmth that spreads through him whenever he thinks of coming home to Jon sitting on the couch, working or reading or napping.

And he thinks of the fact that he only realises all this because Jon starts to have interest in Martin who would be so good for Jon that Tim can’t even be mad about it.

“Oh, no. Oh, damn it,” Tim utters. “The universe really made Jon Sims specifically for me to say Thanks, I hate it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- In _The Coincidence_ Tim describes Jon's and his housewarming party and it's mentioned a few times that they were pretty drunk (no graphic descriptions though)  
> \- drunk!Jon pressures drunk!Tim to brush his teeth and drunk!Tim pressures drunk!Jon to go to bed afterwards  
> \- Tim's jealous of the connection Martin and Jon formed in the short time they know each other, but it's resolved rather quickly
> 
> * * *
> 
> [rebecca bunch voice] i'm just a girl in love, the math of love triangles is super duper fun  
> thanks for reading! ♡


End file.
